The Lamb
by jenhill7
Summary: AU - takes place right after the events of Season 7. Tara Maclay had been accepted to UC Sunnydale but chose instead to go to nursing school in San Francisco. After graduation she finds work at a hospice in Los Osos, California, where she meets Willow Rosenberg, the sole survivor of the cataclysm that struck Sunnydale, California.
1. Fallen Leaves

_A/N: I wrote this story for the Kitten Board (Willow/Tara fanfiction archive) but never have posted it this fanfiction site before now. The story is already complete, so I'll be posting at least two chapters a week, perhaps four. Enjoy!_

...

 **Chapter One**

 **Fallen Leaves**

Tara Maclay, RN, awoke to a pearly, fog-encrusted slat of early morning sunshine directly over her eyes. The sun confused her for a moment – she was diligent about drawing the heavy drapes in her bedroom before slipping off to bed. She blinked several times; the opalescent glow wasn't quite powerful enough to sting her eyes, but it was enough to wake her from a slender and painful sleep. It took only this slim moment for her to recognise the antiseptic smell of the hospice, the faint tang of industrial laundry detergent right under her nose, and the slightly hissing sound emanating from the bank of dials and machines surrounding the bed. She slowly raised her chocolate brown head from her bony pillow, her neck muscles aching, realizing that she had fallen asleep on Mr. Whitney's frail abdomen and arm. Instinctively she studied the beeping monitors and then relaxed slightly. All was well.

Tara tucked wayward wisps of hair back behind her ears and slowly got to her feet. Two hard fists of pain contracted her lower back and she absently rubbed them, feeling the pin pricking of new blood flowing to oxygen deprived limbs. The window was only a single step away – back when Mr. Whitney had been conscious he enjoyed his view of the garden courtyard studded with oak trees dripping holly, framing a giggling waterfall. The morning fog hadn't burned away yet, suffusing Tara's little world with an ethereal glow, and Tara near-reluctantly pulled the blinds so the radiance wasn't shining directly on poor Mr. Whitney's face.

Tara returned to the bed and took Mr. Whitney's wrist. With a practised hand she felt for his pulse and began counting. She could sense the slow shushing of blood through his tired veins. Standing thus she could still feel the insistent pull on her lower back and a dull needle of pain began to surge through the back of her head. She hadn't meant to stay last night, but she really had nothing better to do at home, especially since the recent death of her beloved cat. So she had smiled wistfully at John, the night nurse, when he chastised her for staying. Besides, she had only a couple dozen pages of 'Runaway Jury' to read to the unconscious Mr. Whitney. So when his body began to spasm in the middle of the night she sank into him almost eagerly to take his pain.

And now his blood whispered to her, a tiny voice almost hidden among the constant medical noise of machines and monitors and dials. Tara gave a small sigh, yearning for a hot bath and a soft bed, then with fingers that fumbled a little from tiredness she untucked his blanket, untied two flimsy strings that held his hospital robe together and laid bare Mr. Whitney's chest. Here she could see a mirage of his former self, as a young father who played hoops in the driveway with his sons, beating back the belly that so many of his fellow accountants had developed. All before a multiplication of cells had exploded in his pancreas. In the hard months between then and now, Mr. Whitney's body had shrivelled, his hair had fallen and regrown, and his spirit began to shine with the patient whiteness of death Tara recognised so well. She wondered how much time he had left. There was one certain way of finding out.

Tara shuffled very close to the bed and sat carefully on the edge of it, then splayed her long, lithe fingers wide and placed them delicately on the thin, bare skin of Mr. Whitney's chest. She took a long, deep breath with her eyes open, then allowed her eyes to close. Still muddled and bemused with lack of sleep her eyelids felt heavy and thick. A cramp lit up her lower back and she clenched her jaw, ignoring it. Breathing softly, slowly, deeply, she formed in the whiteness of her mind a single, majestic oak tree. The tree was in its prime, green leaves glowing with health and vitality, lit by the radiant sun of Tara's soul. With exquisite care she sent this tree ghosting through her veins. As it hit the barrier of Mr. Whitney's chest she gave it a small mental push, until it diffused in its entirety on the other side, appearing in the vast blankness of Mr. Whitney's mind.

In the space of seconds this glorious, tremendous tree had withered in the blasting winter of Mr. Whitney's diseased body, leaves yellowing and falling in a golden fountain until only three leaves remained.

Ah.

Tara hadn't realised that Mr. Whitney's death was so close. Just last week when she sent in the tree there had still been an entire branch of yellowing leaves. For a moment Tara debated with herself, wondering if she would have time to find and talk to Mr. Whitney here before having to go out and prepare his body for his final, deathbed visit with his family. She mentally shook her head. He wouldn't be hard to find. In the long months they shared together she had traversed the wilderness of his mind dozens of times. In some ways she knew him more intimately than his wife. As the cancer progressed, stretching metastatic fingers of maliciousness into every crack and crevice of his besieged body, Tara had begun teaching him how to retreat to a place of peace in his mind. Last week, when he finally fell completely into the long unconsciousness, she had found him in the place she helped him create. She knew where it was, and she knew that he was there now.

She closed her mind's eye and reached, feeling for the beaten path to the garden of his soul. When she opened her eyes again she saw the near-dead tree she had brought with her as a reminder of what she still had to do on the other side. She grimaced. She hated bringing this dying tree into his garden of delight. She looked down at herself, curious to see what she looked like. When her mother had first started teaching her to

 _(mindsurf)_

enter other people's minds, she had imparted an interesting piece of information. Tara remembered the day clearly – she had been thirteen or fourteen, wearing impish pigtails and sitting on the edge of her bed. Her mother was sitting cross-legged at her feet so Tara could easily place her clumsy and juvenile hands on her mother's silken head. Just before 'going in' for the first time, Tara's mother had admonished, "There is only truth here, Tara. In the open vessel of the host mind, the host determines your physical form, and you will appear exactly as the host mind sees you. Only truth. The deepest truth."

And when Tara had finally, laboriously, clambered into her mother's mind that day she was surprised to find herself as a little girl in a sunflower dress and pigtails. Later, her adolescent pride crushed, she demanded to know why. The answer was a typical one. "Because you'll always be my little girl."

Tara's aspect hadn't changed much in her many forays into Mr. Whitney's mind. She always looked exactly as she had on the day he was admitted – wearing scrubs with dancing teddy bears, a stethoscope around her neck, and her favourite bright red converse sneakers on her feet. A nurse. His nurse.

"I wondered if you would come."

Tara turned at the sound of his voice. He was puttering in his garden, which he had named the Elfin Forest, shamelessly plagiarising the name of the natural reserve just outside town. She supposed no one was going to come in here and sue him for it. The plants had flourished in his steady care this past week, and she smiled to see the blooming holly and jack-in-the-pulpit.

"It's almost time, but I couldn't leave without saying goodbye," Tara replied, sorry again that she had to bring his dying tree into this perfect garden. She looked and found delight after delight – the woolly lamb's ear contrasting with the smooth green and gold of english ivy, the multicoloured columbines swaying above masses of fragrant thyme.

Peter Whitney stood, and she was glad to see his strong, young body, his smooth skin and dark hair. He brushed dirt from his hands, then purposefully walked among his plants, plucking daisies and honeysuckle and lilies into a fresh bouquet, ducking his head a little as he handed the fresh bundle to her. Tara lifted her mouth in her insolent half-smile as she sniffed the blossoms.

"Thanks for everything, Tara," Mr. Whitney said softly. "I couldn't imagine how difficult this whole ordeal would have been without you."

Tara's face flushed a little, and she opened her mouth to stammer some nonsensical reply, but Mr. Whitney continued. "No, let me finish. I may not have understood how you did what you did, how you took pain away like it was never there, but that doesn't make me any less grateful."

Tara smiled and nodded. "It was my pleasure to help you, Peter."

Mr. Whitney smiled, then turned serious as they both saw another leaf fall from his death-tree. "Any chance I could get a romantic deathbed conversation with my wife?" he asked softly.

Tara placed the flowers on the ground, took his hands and gently shook her head. "I'm sorry, Peter. It's far too late. I can't bring you out now." She took one last envious look at the paradise of his mind, then clasped his hands tighter in hers. "I have to go."

He shocked her then, by lifting her hands up to his lips and kissing them like a courtly gentleman of yore. "I'll never forget you, Tara Maclay."

"Nor I you, Peter Whitney."

He gave her a full grin, and she smiled back, picked up the flowers, and began to pull herself away. "Tell my wife I love her, and that I'm proud of my kids," he called to her, as she continued to retreat, and she gave him a last knowing nod before disappearing.

She awoke on the other side, her fingers warm and tingling on his chest. She was almost surprised to see his real appearance and she frowned for the beauty the cancer stole away. With considerable effort she stood up and felt again the mean gremlin bite of pain in her lower back. She had no time to waste, but she stood and looked at him anyway, the translucent light of morning reflecting off the glow his soul made that only she could see. She smoothed the skin of his cheek, and then touched the hair of his head and whispered, "Goodbye, Peter."

Pulling herself away was harder than she thought. She felt rubbery, like an elastic band that would snap and pull her back to him. They were always so sweet before death. She could practically drink the sweetness in, bathe in the glow of soulfire, and when the light came to them they would walk into it and she would watch, and yearn, and wish it could be her. Maybe then her farce of a life could have some meaning, because isn't there always meaning in the end?

 _Not even the poet knows the end from the beginning._

One of her mother's sayings, which she used to illustrate the vagaries of life. It made little sense to Tara back then when it was first said, when Tara lay weeping on her mother's chest, suffering the injustice of it all. When the clods of dirt landed on her mother's coffin she understood even less. All she knew was that, once her mother died, life had little joy for her. She was stuck in a home she detested, with a father she feared, a brother she dreaded, a fictitious wish in her heart.

 _But you're out now._

Yes, but like an elastic band, she feared the inevitable snap and pull back into that hellish dimension of life. Anything was better than that. Even this, this emptiness, this abyss of love. Her dead cat and empty house in Los Osos was better than her dead mother and fiendish family.

No time to waste, Tara.

Tara tucked errant brown hair back behind her ears and walked to the door of Mr. Whitney's private room, dreading the sound of squeaking coming from her sneakers. Closing the door carefully behind her _(why, Tara, Peter is unconscious, you know)_ she went down the hall to the nurse's station. It was almost seven in the morning and Penny was there, looking perky and chipper and every other early-morning person adjective. There was a coffeepot making comforting gurgling noises behind her and Tara longed for a cup.

No time.

"Penny, we need to phone Mr. Whitney's family. It's time," she said to the older nurse. Penny lifted her head from the forms she was reading and mock-glared at Tara.

"Were you here again all night, honey?" she asked, looking Tara over. Her practised eye (near thirty years of nursing service, thank you very much) could see what Tara was trying very much to hide: exhaustion, headache, and backache. "You really need to get a life outside these walls," she continued in her soft southern drawl, softening the bite of her words with a smile.

"Just c-call them, please," Tara replied, turning her head away, knowing Penny could see the truth and hating it.

"I don't know how you always know, honey," Penny said in a placating tone, "but you're nivver wrong. I'll call 'em. You get Mr. Whitney ready."

As Tara returned to the

 _(deathspace)_

sanctity of Mr. Whitney's room, she could hear Penny flipping through his file to find the phone numbers of his family. They lived in Santa Maria, which meant that, with the blessing of rush-hour traffic, she would have about an hour to get him ready to receive them.

Within that hour Tara managed to give him a sponge bath, had combed what remained of his hair and shaved his face, then dressed him in fresh hospital robes and tucked him back into his narrow bed. Then, all that remained was the wait. She propped a chair by the foot of his bed and put her hand on one of his blanketed feet. She wasn't sure if that reassurance was for him at all; he couldn't feel her, or hear her. He was far away, puttering in his garden, watching the fallen leaves and thinking of his wife.

And she was here, yet again. Half a dozen times Tara had been the one to sit and patiently wait while the souls of her patients were cleansed through pain and heaven-fire. She was the one to watch as their bodies

 _(husks)_

were thinned, until their souls shone through them, lighting them aglow, embossing them like the sun behind soft petals. Their light would always wound her, for she carried her own darkness within. Her charges, they were the hallowed ones and she was struck by remorse. How often will she come here, a black and malevolent spirit always desiring the end her patients received? Tara realised that she was their partner, the other side of their coin, they the light, she the dark one that always hides a little to the left, deep in the shade. Would there ever be anyone to bring her to the light? Or must she always glut herself on someone else's pain?

Tara heard the door scrape open, and she looked over to see the drawn face of the soon-to-be Widow Whitney. She had been a frequent visitor while Mr. Whitney was conscious. Once he lapsed into that deeper state, Tara had pled with her, knowing that the filter in his mind was so thick that Peter could barely see through it to the waking world. He would never know she was here. Tara promised to stay near, and she fulfilled that promise.

Mrs. Whitney came right up to Tara, and Tara could see her whole frame quaking. She warmly took the smaller woman in her arms and held her close. Tara couldn't do much good without touching bare skin, but she sent what waves of compassion she could through her fingers and into the woman's clothes, not knowing if it was a futile gesture or not. Like holding Mr. Whitney's blanketed feet, maybe that gesture was more for her.

"I can't thank you enough for being here with him," the woman whispered, finally pulling out of Tara's arms, thin streaks of moisture marking her face.

"He l-loves you very much," Tara stammered, blinking and hating herself for it. "He's proud of his family." She clasped Mrs. Whitney's cool, clammy hands in her own for a moment longer, then let go. Their two sons crowded the space, the younger one (did he just turn fifteen?) staring at her and blushing. Tara tried not to blush in turn, but failed, remembering a conversation with Mr. Whitney in which he revealed his youngest had a crush on her. She wanted to tell him how futile it was (I'm gay, Mr. Whitney), but she never did. There was no point. That part of her life was intensely private, and the bounds of the nurse/patient relationship shielded her.

So she merely tugged the curtain closed and said, "I'll be here if you need me."

Tara couldn't leave the room. Not now. Not when it was so sweet. The early morning fog had been vanquished and deflected sunlight streamed fiercely into the room, painting the silhouettes of Peter Whitney's family on the thin curtain. She sat on an available stool and watched, and waited, scarcely listening to the murmuring of his sons, only listening for the steady beeping of his heart monitor to finally lapse and fail.

And the veil felt thin.

She could practically see them, the hosts of angels on the other side. They would be lining the avenues, getting ready to pop the champagne and throw the confetti the moment Peter Whitney appeared on the other side, congratulating him on the win. A life without vice, a family that loved him, a battle with cancer well fought.

And her heart quailed with fear. What would her death be like? Who would line the avenues for her, who would applaud her years of abuse and despair, who would understand her love of women, who would forgive her death wish?

So she sat, and the pain in her back paled next to the pain in her heart.

...

 _Well, dear readers, I don't even know if there are still any Buffy fans active, but I'm proud to share this story nonetheless. I hope you enjoy it. Let me know by hitting the box below! Two chapters today, just to get you hooked!_


	2. Dreamer

**Chapter Two**

 **Dreamer**

Oh so quiet, and oh so still, Tara waited for Peter Whitney to die. In her most precious heart she recalled the moments of happiness he had given her in the past year, the wisdom and advice he had shared with her. Feeling utterly wretched at wanting his death, yet anxious for his great pains to finally be finished, she listened carefully to the sounds coming from beyond the curtain. Finally the blessed monitor flatlined, and Tara rushed to the bed. Whipping her stethoscope to her ears, she barely noticed the resigned faces of his family as she closed her eyes and listened.

Blessed silence.

"It's over," Tara said, hoping to convey with her voice the gladness that he had died without pain and yet the sorrow that his passing was to her. As Widow Whitney nodded, Tara thought she understood.

The door opened; Tara knew it would be her supervisor, Ethan Daniels. The nurse's station would have been notified the minute the monitor flatlined, and Ethan was here to take the rest of the burden from her. With a wave of his hand, he sent her to the staff room as he began to explain the papers and procedures Mrs. Whitney would have to follow.

Half an hour later, Ethan found Tara in the staff room, sitting in her favourite bright yellow easy chair, nursing a cup of coffee and staring out the window. He sat down across from her, pushing his tousled hair out of his eyes, and said, "You did good work, Tara."

"He was a g-good man," Tara replied, looking over at him. Her eyes were soft, tenderised by pain and much remorse.

"Well, you've got the mandatory week off," Ethan said, stretching out his legs, hoping to hide his look of concern. The policy had been in place at Los Osos Hospice for years, as a way to make sure the overworked nurses had time to rest before taking on a new charge. He knew enough about Tara, though, to know that the mandatory week off would be a burden to her, not a blessing. She had no family she cared to speak of, and her house still echoed with the remembered frolics of her dead cat.

Tara didn't say anything, just turned her head and looked out the window. After a few long, uncomfortable moments, Ethan got up, grasped her shoulder and said, "Get some rest," and then left.

Tara felt glued to the chair. The cup of coffee was now cold and near empty in her hands. With a great effort she lifted herself from her chair, poured the coffee down the sink, and pulled on her light jacket. It was early summer in central California, and Tara knew the cool tang of the air.

Once in the parking lot, Tara took a deep breath of the salty air of the sea. The hospice was a little removed from the town proper, halfway up a hill, and Tara could see the protruding mass of the Morro Rock in the distance. The estuary was filled with boats as the summer tourist season began to heat up. She walked to her car, a sensible little Honda, and started her drive home.

Her house was ancient, on a street with old oak trees, and it was blessedly cool and dark, as she had remembered to draw all the blinds before she left for work yesterday morning. She debated opening them, flooding the kitchen with light and fixing herself some breakfast, but decided against it. She was too exhausted. Setting her keys on a counter, she gasped as another large gnarl of pain broke out on her lower back. She shuffled to the medicine cabinet and dry-swallowed a couple aspirin, noticing that she had a message on her answering machine. Tara pressed the button and heard the familiar dreaded voice of her older brother, Donny.

"Tara? It's Donny. It's been a month. I'm coming up tomorrow, whether you're working or not, and you will take this stinking animal, whether you like it or not. Call me if you want to, but nothing you say will make me stop coming by tomorrow." Tara cringed at the implied threat in his voice. Why did he always have to be this way? She hadn't refused an animal in years. Besides, she needed an animal, badly, and Donny knew it. The machine blurted out the date in its dry, disinterested woman's voice, and Tara realised that he called yesterday. Which meant he was coming today.

Thank goodness her house was clean. Donny could report that to their father.

Deciding against the bath (no time to waste, Tara), she merely took off her shoes and climbed right into bed, scrubs and all. The room was pleasantly dark and cool, and she fell asleep quickly, despite the pain in her back.

And dreamt.

Tara was wearing her favourite burgundy dress with the wide floral sash, her brown hair was invitingly up, and her eyelids glittered in modest gold; she felt young and pretty. She was strolling arm in arm with the mother of her youth, the Anna of the golden hair and wide dimpled smile. The campus of UC Sunnydale opened invitingly before them, raw in its youthful exuberance, pulsing with the collective heartbeats of a thousand students. Tara could feel a palpable weight lift from her body, as the chains of restraint her father forged for her were undone.

"It would have been so different," Anna murmured, and a sliver of sleeping Tara reflected on her decision not to come to UC Sunnydale, even though she had been accepted, choosing to go to San Francisco for nursing school instead.

And in the distance, a goddess made flesh walked unerringly towards them. Towards her.

The goddess was the embodiment of youth and beauty. She was clad in a shimmering white gown spun of fiery starlight and her face radiated a power deeper than Tara had ever felt. It was a magical power, a mystical power, one that dwarfed the considerable power of the woman on Tara's arm, and Tara heard her mother gasp with the knowledge of it. Every step the goddess took toward her, Tara felt she was drawing nearer to the reason for her own existence. Suddenly everything began to make sense to her; the horror of her father's abuse, the pain of her mother's death, the emptiness of her current existence, it all led faithfully to this one divine moment. The hardened bud of her embittered life began to unfurl, her vessel began to open, and the future, always a desolate and fearsome place, began to bloom like the lilies of Mr. Whitney's garden. Tara trembled, knowing that the sole purpose of her whole being must surely be this single encounter with a being composed entirely of love.

The goddess floated closer, until Tara realised that she was scarcely more than a girl. Who, despite the ageless wisdom glimmering from the depths of her eyes, could be no older than Tara herself.

So Tara slid into love, no more able to stop it than to stop the tides.

Tara felt a deep pull of desire, a near-painful exquisite ache that radiated from deep within her. It was a single emotion more powerful than any she had ever felt in her life; surely her last girlfriend

 _(sad sad sue)_

had never affected her like this. She felt that a part of her that had always been missing was suddenly found, and she rejoiced in the discovery. Tara longed to touch the pristine unnaturally white hair that fell like snow over the woman's shoulders, to run her fingers through it, to smell the sandalwood and rose infusion of it. She ached to place her hot fingers on the back of the woman's neck, to tilt the woman's lovely head, to place searing kisses of surpassing tenderness on the woman's delicious lips, to feel the woman's breath on her cheek.

And she wept with the longing, with the heart-breaking ache that rent her soul.

The mindless students endlessly milling through this sunny campus plaza didn't seem to notice the approach of the goddess/woman, yet they still gave her wide berth. Tara knew she was the sole intention of this woman, that no force on earth or in the nether-realms could halt this woman's steady advance toward her, and her heart wept in gratitude. Finally the woman stopped directly before Tara and Anna. The woman lifted strong, lithe hands and displayed them to Tara, palms up. A mysterious weapon winked into existence in her waiting hands. It was an axe, or a scythe, a deep burnished red with a gleaming silver edge and Tara looked at it in surprise. The goddess gripped it in both of her hands like the fate of the universe rested upon her; her eyes suddenly brimming with unshed tears.

The woman gazed upon Tara with a softness and vulnerability that shocked Tara to the core. No one had ever trusted her that fully and Tara drowned in the depths of those sea green eyes. "What part will you play?" the goddess asked Tara softly.

And some part of Tara knew it, even though she had never seen the script or read the ending. Her part in these events would be a natural extension of her own soul; it would fulfil the end of her very creation. She would be the tool, the bridge,

 _(the lamb)_

Enchanted and beginning to feel lost and dizzy, Tara dared, oh yes, she dared! to lift her ungainly hands and take the wicked gleaming weapon from the goddess. Tara concentrated on the weapon and employed her strongest, finest offensive. Tara sharply inhaled, and the weapon dissolved into so much colourful dust. Then Tara was lifting her trembling fingers to the woman's perfect face. She wiped away the offending tears, caressed the woman's cheek and felt suffused with love. Tara then held the woman's chin and said, without a ghost of a stutter, "I am the lamb."

The woman's face lifted in hope, and Tara was filled with desire. A part of her knew she was dreaming, and ached for a single kiss before she woke. Her eyes fluttered shut as their lips drew closer and Tara knew this was the moment she had been waiting a lifetime for.

But she was violently pulled away by her mother, and the goddess' face crumpled in despair, and she reached imploringly for Tara. Tara stared at her mother in astonishment, wondering why would Anna stop her, Anna knew, she knew the truth about her, her little private war and the surrender to the only thing that felt right to her, and that was a woman's lips, it was a woman's touch, a woman's desire. Tara shuddered as Anna cried in a voice of doom, "For you, dearest daughter, the truth."

The sky darkened as night swept over the campus. The students fled, screaming. The ground rumbled underneath Tara's feet; she stumbled back as the ground underneath the goddess erupted in a massive profusion of bloated bodies. The goddess lurched upon that mound of crumpled limbs, and Tara knew with startling clarity, the clarity only found in dreams, that they were her dead friends, and out of the well of the worlds names came to her: Buffy, Dawn, Xander, Giles, and Anya. Their blood began to seep into the hem of her immaculate gown. And underneath the surface of the streets of Sunnydale was a twisted warren of evil

 _(I am the first)_

that Tara could feel, could feel the inky reek of wickedness slide along her bones and into her mouth, tasting of sharp copper and bile. It was a fanged, malevolent presence that lurked beneath every crypt, every manhole cover, and called out to its minions.

And in the night that had completely swallowed Tara, Anna, and the woman, the minions answered. Waves of them emerged from their lairs, scenting fear and despair and feeding on it like wild dogs, yapping and snarling, encapsulating the three of them, fencing them in, surrounding them.

The woman cried out, tossing her head, her white hair shimmering like sheets of rain, and Tara turned to see the crumpled bodies of the woman's dead friends grabbing at her, pulling her down into the ground to be with them, and Tara also somehow knew that a part of this woman desired it. Tara wanted to shout out to her, but her mouth was stopped agape as she watched a swollen purpleness bloom on the woman's abdomen, staining the gown with liquid terror and desolation, spreading like a cancer over her entire body, until she stood dripping with anguish. Above and beyond them all Tara could hear a deep maniacal laughter

 _(I AM THE FIRST)_

and she cringed to hear it.

"Can you save me?" the woman cried.

"I will," Tara promised. "For I am your lamb."

And her brave heart never faltering, her purpose shining clear, Tara strode confidently up to the woman. And as she advanced she faced down the hordes of her own private despairs, the twisting fingers of her father, the bloodied fists of her brother, the dirtied coffin of her mother. They rose up like armies before her, but her determined resolve shone through them. And the sweet sweet light of Peter Whitney sustained her; his tunnel was her tunnel, and tasting exaltation on her tongue Tara advanced.

For this was her purpose. This was her being. This made sense of it all.

Tara finally reached the waning goddess. Tara extended her eager hands and she took the woman in her arms, tucked the woman's head protectively in the little hollow by her shoulder and embraced her with fierce compassion. The deep, yawning pit of desire in her stomach lurched as the woman's hands clung to her with an ardent intensity. A delicious pain constricted her throat and for a moment she could scarcely breathe, drowning in a vast ocean of need.

And with every ounce of love in her body, she used every teaching her mother had ever imparted her, splaying her fingers wide and pressing them firmly on the woman's bare back. She closed her eyes and just wallowed in the luxurious feeling of a warm womanly body against hers, she could feel the woman's tears in the hollow of her neck, the woman's fingers clutching so desperately on her back, and the glory of the woman's breasts pressed so firmly against her own. Tara sharply inhaled. The stain began to retreat from the woman's body as Tara's fingers greedily sucked it in, transferring it to Tara's own body, until Tara choked on it as it formed clot-like throughout her very soul.

And this time the tunnel, and the light, was for her.

As Tara kept taking the stain, the darkness, the evil,

 _(the first)_

the goddess began again to shine brighter and brighter, until the hordes of cackling vampires and demons began to disintegrate before them. Shocking rays of sunlight streamed from their entwined bodies and Tara wished she could stay thus forever, stay part of this joyous union that made her whole worthless existence suddenly worthwhile.

But no, there was

 _(the tunnel, the purple)_

the light, and she tasted the foul purple stain on her tongue, and she felt it hardening like cement in the veins of her body. Satiated to the point of death, she finally tore herself away from the woman, whose brightness now exceeded the very sun in the firmament, whose face now rose to look upon Tara with endless gratitude and love. It was payment enough for Tara, to see her beloved once again at peace, even though she herself was inundated with the dreaded purple stain, and could verily feel the weakening beats of her steadfast heart. The two women clasped hands, and still Tara could feel her fingers thrilling at the other woman's touch, and her desperation for a single kiss overwhelmed her.

"For the love of this woman, you will surely die," Tara heard her mother prophesy. It hurt to look away from the goddess, but Tara did so, hearing a twinge of pain in her mother's voice. Still holding hands with the goddess, Tara watched in shock as her mother's body wilted, corn-silk hair shucked from her scalp, body withering under chemotherapy, skin drying to paper thinness. Tara now beheld the mother who had died in her arms six years earlier.

"You took too much, Tara," her mother said. "You took it, and you can't give it away."

A gust of wind, and her mother's frame crumbled into dust and was borne away, leaving Tara alone with the unknown goddess who shone with a piercing liquid light. The goddess stared at her cleansed body, at their conjoined hands, then looked at Tara with awe and wonder on her face. Even in the midst of her euphoria, her desperate love, Tara could feel the purple stain that she had taken from the goddess, could feel the inky blackness burrow deep in her bones, poisoning her to the point of death.

"Why, oh why?" the goddess whispered, endless sorrow in her green eyes, clutching at Tara's hands, starting to pull Tara again to her, frantic to reverse the spell, to take it all back, because it wasn't supposed to end like this, no, not like this.

And the god-light beckoned to Tara, and she could see the gossamer threads of heaven's highway extending towards her, and the sweetness flooded her soiled mouth, tasting like sunshine and Peter Whitney's lilies. It didn't matter now that she had taken it all; she had saved her. The woman would live.

"Because I am your lamb," Tara whispered, finally at peace.

And Tara felt her consciousness begin to lift, just as the woman wrapped her arms about Tara, vainly trying to hold her in, but it was too late.

Tara exploded with a great burst of light.

And woke.


	3. Donny and the Rabbit

**Chapter Three**

 **Donny and the Rabbit**

Tara struggled in her sheets, as if about to embrace the woman in her dream, and vainly tried to recapture the sleep. The dream was still so sweet upon her, like honey in her veins, and she didn't want to let it go. So she calmed herself, and closed her eyes and breathed deeply, willing herself back to sleep. Yet the dream vanished like mist in her mind, until all she could remember were dim flashes: the goddess immaculate, the goddess upon a broken mound of bodies, the goddess in her arms, vainly trying to hold Tara together. The emotion however – Tara could still feel the deep ache of desire nestle deep within her bones, and she was torn; should she reflect on it again and again, on fictitious sweetness and drive herself mad, or give up the dream altogether?

Tara sighed, and looked at her watch. She hoped she hadn't slept the day through – she'd be up all night. She grimaced; it was just past seven in the evening. Her stomach growled, and Tara realised she had nothing to eat since yesterday evening in the hospice cafeteria. She got up and compulsively made her bed.

Combing the tangles of sleep from her brown hair, Tara headed down the stairs, stifling a large yawn, then yelped as she saw a large shape in her living room. Thin rays of sunlight peeked through the edges of her drapes, and she relaxed as she focused on the form of her older brother. "Finally, you're up," Donny said, in a tone both joking and deadly serious. He got up and moved to the edge of the large front room window, sharply tugging the cord to open the curtains. Tara reeled back a little as dusty evening sunshine streamed into her face.

"Hi, Donny," she said quietly. In that moment she hated her brother with a fierce intensity. He stood there in dusty coveralls, a thin red beard covering his lower chin, his deceptive baby-face that could show an amazing amount of animosity. He represented everything she hated about herself and her beginnings, the life she had tried so hard to leave behind her but never could. And yet he could never quite understand how she felt, because he didn't care to. All he knew was she was obstinate, and vain, and ignored her family obligations for reasons he couldn't understand.

"When I knocked and nobody answered, I let myself in," he explained, sitting down heavily on the couch once again and idly flipping through books she had left on the little coffee table. Thank goodness she had not left her most recent book of witchcraft on the table; he hated those little reminders of talent she had and he didn't. He continued, "I'm hungry, Tara."

Of course.

Without another word, Tara turned into her kitchen. She had leftover soup that would do for her, but Donny would want a steak and potatoes and sautéed mushrooms. Seething with anger she would never express, she got a steak from the freezer and threw it into the microwave. In the fifteen minutes it took her to cook his steak (medium rare, like always) and potatoes she had recovered her temper. And, like the lump he was, he stayed in her living room, casually flipping channels on her television until she called out, "It's ready, Donny."

She could hear his heavy grunt as he got up from the couch, then he came into the kitchen. They sat down to their respective meals, and Donny quickly asked, "Do you have any beer?"

She sighed. "No, Donny. I can get you some iced tea, if you like."

He grunted. She supposed that meant yes.

Tara hurriedly brought the iced tea from the fridge and poured them both a glass. For long minutes the silence reigned in an icy fashion as they ate, she pecking disconsolately at her food (her earlier famishment quite gone), he devouring everything in sight.

As he was mopping up the last of the bloody gravy with a piece of buttered bread, Tara finally asked, "How are things at home?"

"As well as can be," Donny replied, his mouth full. He sat expansively back and sipped his iced tea. "I don't know why you can't keep a beer in your fridge for your older brother," he complained.

"I don't drink much, Donny, you k-know that," Tara responded, blinking.

"I just think you could get your head out of your butt once in a while to realise that I'm here every month. Just once a month you could have the common courtesy to stock your fridge with a Molson."

Tara ducked her head, the surest way she knew of appeasing her brother. "You're right, I'm sorry," she said softly.

Donny merely nodded, then asked, "So when are you coming home?" He watched her splutter for a moment before continuing, "I know you can now. I stopped by the hospice on my way here. They told me that Mr. Whitney died this morning. You've got your mandatory week off. We could sure use you at home for a while."

Use you. Again Tara inwardly seethed at the words, and a slight flash of her anger came out as she replied, "W-well, they might need me for something."

"Do you honestly hate us that much?" Donny demanded, raising his voice.

And for a moment Tara wished she could answer honestly, and say yes, yes, I hate you, I never want to see you again, neither of you! But the dutiful daughter won out, like it always had to in her childhood house of thunder, and she said, "You know I don't h-hate you. It's just hard." She felt constricted and young, like she was fifteen again and being berated by father and brother, her motherly saviour exiled to the room upstairs, hidden away because of the false demon in her. Just one reason for Tara to hate both father and brother, one reason among millions.

Tense moments passed, then Donny sighed. "Whatever," he said, dismissing her. "I just wish you would remember once in a while that we're your family. Not these people you work for. Us. It won't kill you to come home once in a while."

And a deep, scared little girl's voice in Tara's head thought, oh yes, it will.

But Tara stayed silent, hunched up in her chair, twirling her spoon through her half-eaten bowl of soup. She could never tell Donny the base of her fear; to admit the things her father had done to her, half-afraid that Donny already knew, and thought it was okay. When she was little, she had sometimes thought that her brother should be her protector, her sword arm, and her shield against the big bad world. But it hadn't turned out that way. Her father had produced a little menace, much like himself, and Donny turned tormentor. With her mother alive Tara found a little solace, a little space of peace up high in the farmhouse. But with clods of dirt on a coffin Tara found freedom, and she ran away to university, then taken this job at the hospice as far from her family as she could possibly get.

She wanted nothing to do with them. And Donny knew it.

A shameful little part of her knew she would be dead without Donny, without him bringing the animal every month. For years she had tried to have the courage to do it without him, to make that final step into adulthood. But her older brother knew her better than she supposed, and once saved her life. It was when she was in nursing school, and she had taken the pain again and again, and her professors marvelled at her talents even as she began to die. A vain little part of her wished death, an end to her dreary existence. So when her brother found her on the brink of death

 _(but Donny it's such a little thing)_

he quickly drove her to a farmer's field and forced her down by a solitary cow. He forced her hands open and watched as she used the animal the way she must and hated her for weeping afterward.

"You may not think so, Tara, but I do love you," he had yelled at her, the corpse of the cow at their feet. "How many sisters do you think I have?"

So they had made a truce. Tara would stop trying to kill herself by taking too much, and Donny would bring her an animal, once a month. And usually it was enough.

Donny pushed roughly away from the table and stomped to the front door. On the ground was a covered cage, and Tara's heart beat in both gladness and misery to see it. Donny lifted the cover and Tara could see a bedraggled black rabbit. She never knew where Donny got the animals, and part of her never wanted to know. She didn't want to think of them deflected from loving homes, where little girls would pet them and brush them and coo to them. She didn't want them to know that when they looked into her solemn blue eyes they were looking at the angel of death.

The phone rang, sending a jangle of shock and surprise through Tara's spine. She got up from the table, frowning. She had been in Los Osos for over a year, but she had few friends outside work. No one called, except for Donny and the hospice. She picked up the phone in the old-fashioned phone nook by the kitchen and said, "H-hello."

"Tara, it's Ethan. Listen, I'm sorry, but we need you to come down right away."

Tara's heart froze. Had she done something wrong? Was there a problem with Mr. Whitney at autopsy? Ethan correctly interpreted her silence and added, "There's nothing wrong, Tara. I have just received an intriguing file and I need your opinion. Can you come by?"

"Of course, Ethan, I'll be there r-right away," Tara answered, then hung up the phone.

Donny still loomed by the doorway.

"I've got to go to work, Donny," Tara said, grabbing her car keys.

He didn't move.

"Donny, I'm sorry, but I have to go," she said, her voice quaking with remembered fear.

"You are not leaving this house until you deal with this rabbit," Donny demanded, squaring himself in the doorway. "It's been a month, and I know you need it."

Tara wanted to say no, she didn't need it, but the mean little gremlin in her lower back protested, and the little stab of pain in her head agreed with the gremlin.

 _(All magic has consequence, Tara)_

Her mother had pounded that in to her often enough when she learned that Tara had inherited the family ability. "If you're going to take it, you're going to give it away," Anna had said, time and again. "Otherwise, you'll die."

Tara looked at Donny, at the constant anger that had prematurely lined his face, and she felt a little of his frustration. He, too, was caught in a life he didn't want, but at least he wasn't cowardly enough to end it by taking his own life.

"You think I don't get it," he was saying to her. She blinked at him. "You think I'm stupid." Tara made to say no, but he continued. "You've been wanting a legitimate way to kill yourself for years. You don't think I know why you chose a hospice? For the diseased and dying? For the seriously ill? You're just hoping to rack up the blood debt, and that someday you'll be called to pay up."

Shocked, Tara opened and closed her mouth again.

"You know, I shouldn't even care any more. You're twenty-three years old; you should be able to handle your own affairs. But I know you, Tara," he accused, then wrenched open the cage and drew out the squirming black bundle of fur. "Would you take it if I didn't make you?"

Tara stared at Donny, at the rabbit. She couldn't say a word, because it was all true. A part of her mind marvelled at his reasoning, she didn't realise he was that astute.

"Now you're taking this rabbit. Right now."

Still silenced by his words, Tara merely nodded, dropped her keys and walked up to him. She took the black rabbit in her arms and immediately began sending calming rays through it. It settled somewhat, and she sat down in her favourite overstuffed paisley easy chair, which was scored with claw marks dealt by an over-enthusiastic kitten well over two years ago.

 _(Dead kitten. All dead.)_

She stroked the rabbit and felt Donny's eyes on her. She began to sorrow for the rabbit, for the life she was about to take. Was her ability a blessing or a curse? A remembered whiff of lilies and Peter Whitney's voice came back to her, thanking her. Yes, for him a blessing. But what of the rabbit?

Tara allowed her eyes to close. She splayed her fingers over the short thick black fur of the rabbit and began to breathe slowly, deeply. She formed the tree in her mind, but for her it was an apple tree, all ripe and rosy. With a little push, she sent it deeper within herself and watched as whole branches of leaves blackened and decayed, fruit began to soften and bruise, and the entire tree seemed to wilt.

She had taken more than she realised, in Mr. Whitney's last hurrah.

Tara sharply inhaled, and the blackness, the pain, the purple began to stream from the leaves, long thin streams of tar that she funnelled through her fingers and into the body of the rabbit. She could feel the little body shuddering under her fingers.

You didn't deserve this, she thought.

But she still siphoned, and she could feel the pain of her lower back first ease, and then disappear altogether. Her tree began to radiate once again, except for one last high branch. She mentally reached for it, then gasped.

The rabbit was dead.

And there was still a whole branch left, dripping with vileness, drooping in Peter Whitney's cancer pain.

 _(Don't tell him, he'll make me take another)_

Tara pulled out and abruptly awoke from her trance-like state. And she curled her body around the rabbit, hugged it close to her chest, and wept, like she always did.

"Thank you," she whispered to it.

Feeling energised and awake

 _(alive!)_

she got up from the chair, still tenderly holding the dead rabbit. She finally gave it to Donny, who still stood impassively in the doorway, watching her careful murder. Without another word she gathered her keys, purse, and jacket and left her house, closing the door carefully behind her. She wouldn't look at Donny as she left. He would take the rabbit, bury it, and come back in a month with another. That's just how it worked, how it had to work.

And as Tara drove back to the hospice in the glimmering, dying sunlight, her heart was bleak within her body buzzing of vitality. Was this all she lived for? To spend her days among the diseased and dying, her nights alone in that creaking, empty house, and never a person to wonder why? Never a person to light up her life, and give her just one reason to keep on living? She thought of the woman in her dream

 _(for the love of this woman, you will surely die)_

and her soul crumbled with despair.

That's right, Tara. It was only a dream.

This is your life.

Wake up.


	4. A New Charge

**Chapter Four**

 **A New Charge**

As she made her way through the quiet streets of Los Osos, Tara's mind was reeling from one flash of memory to another. It seemed impossible that so much had happened in just one day. First the death of Peter Whitney, then the exquisite dream of the goddess, and the surprising revelations from her brother, each had wrought such a change in her consciousness that the day felt years old. But now, in the tranquillity of the evanescent evening, it was the dream she chose to think of, and she once again tried to recapture the moments of sweetness from that dream. She longed to toss herself into the honeyed depths of the memories, and she focused especially on the moment of contact with the goddess, the feel of her devoted arms around Tara, the faint smell of sandalwood and rose in her hair, the feeling of coming home, at long last.

That pleasant fiction, which had started so welcome as she started her drive, quickly turned to poison in her mind. For with every moment she remembered the joy, she then remembered the ache of loneliness, the long desperate years she had been alone. Sue had been such a very long time ago, just a blip, really, on the course of Tara's life. Every night in the years since then she had spent alone. Tara felt like she was screaming, always screaming, just needing someone to take notice of her, but the crowds of people in her life kept milling around her, ignoring her agonised cries.

Swiftly, a ghost of her mother's voice came back to her. _"It would have been so different."_

Tara shook her head and concentrated on the dream again. She had been in Sunnydale. In the past week she had more pressing reasons to be glad she had not made Sunnydale her home, as the whole world rocked to the news of its sudden demise. The entire city had been lost in a terrific implosion, a single catastrophic event that no scientist could quite explain. Neither could they explain why the city was mysteriously empty, except within the remains of the brand new high school, where the bodies of dozens of young girls had been discovered. News stations had had a field day, ripe in speculations of sword wounds and bites. Why would she dream of that terrible place?

 _Hush, Tara._

So Tara reflected on the face of the woman, and her heart yearned in the remembrance, the feel of the woman's chin in her hand, the white hair she longed to entangle in her fingers, and the full lips that practically begged to be kissed.

And with her eyes wide open Tara could see the glowing green eyes of the goddess, the eyes that spoke of a longing that would survive forever, of a desire that would surpass any distance, of a love that would be celebrated eternally. In those sea green eyes Tara would finally find a safe harbour, a place to rest, sheltered from her sea of torments. Maybe in those eyes she could finally see a reflection of herself that wasn't skewed by generations of hate and abuse. Maybe the person behind those eyes could finally spur her into becoming the woman she'd always dreamed of becoming, the type of woman with dirt under her fingernails, wind in her hair, and patience in her soul, not an enigmatic mystery woman, but present and _real._

And yes, Tara knew it was all for nothing, that this was the most exquisite torture imaginable, but her love-stricken mind didn't care. She had to feel love, any kind of love, even if it wasn't real.

Because even that little something was better than nothing at all.

 _I'm in love, and I don't even know her name._

Thus she entertained _(tormented!)_ herself on the short drive to the hospice, through the sleepy streets, around playgrounds and parks, and finally into the parking lot. The sun was beginning to set over the bank of trees surrounding the hospice, and she could see a slim sliver of Pacific Ocean on the horizon, smouldering in the afterglow of the day's affair with the sun.

Once inside the cool, dim corridors, Tara made her way to the West Wing nurse's station, where she figured she would find Ethan. Indeed he was there, looking tired and overworked. His sandy brown hair was tucked recklessly behind his ears and his white shirt looked rumpled. She looked at her watch, which confirmed the fact that he had been there for more than twelve hours. He looked up to see her approach and she gave him a lopsided smile.

"Good, you're here," he said, putting down the papers he was staring at and rubbing his eyes.

"Goodness, Ethan, you're turning into me," Tara gently teased. She enjoyed teasing Ethan; he was easy to get along with. Probably because he was a perpetual bachelor, who enjoyed the flirting and the dating but not the commitment. When she had first arrived he had put the moves on her, which only served to make her laugh. Sue

 _(sad sad Sue)_

was long gone by then, but Tara wasted no time in letting him know, gently of course, that he was barking up the wrong tree. Ever since then he had become a sort of protector for her, and after today's disastrous meeting with her brother she now wistfully wished that Donny could be more like Ethan and less like their father. Ethan was someone she could turn to, but the open sea of their friendship had yet to encounter a storm. Would he still stand by her if he knew the truth? She didn't know, and she wasn't about to risk it. He knew precious little about her abilities, but he had discovered some time ago that she gave the best shoulder rubs in the state, and it was that plea that came to her now.

"What a long day," Ethan said. "Could you…?" he asked her with a look of hope on his face.

Tara's dimples magically appeared as she smiled hugely and she pointed to one of the chairs behind the nurse's station. Ethan gratefully sat down, settling as comfortably as he could in the chair. John, one of the wing's night nurses, looked over at them for a moment, then returned to distributing pills in the little containers for their patients. Tara closed her eyes for only a moment, still sizzling with the energy of the rabbit, focusing herself and her powers, then opened them again. She placed her lithe and slender fingers on top of Ethan's shoulders and began to massage. She had taken massage therapy courses, it certainly helped in the hospice for the overworked massage therapy specialists, and she had done so deliberately. Massaging a patient dealt with bare skin, and bare skin was Tara's speciality. So now and then she would stop rubbing for a moment to place her hot fingers on Ethan's neck and suck out the pain of his head and shoulders before returning to the general massage over his clothes. Soon she could feel the telltale numbness in her fingers that testified of the successful transfer, and the heaviness of Ethan's pain settled somewhere behind her heart. Tara rubbed as long as she could stand, siphoning off the worst of his pain, knowing that if he knew the truth, he would never have asked.

The truth was dangerous. If any of her co-workers actually knew what she could do, that she could actually take, really truly physically take the pain of her patients upon herself, so that she would feel it instead, they would either be concerned for her safety or burn her as a witch. Too great a part of her needed their pain, she needed being able to do something that no one else could do. She needed the darkness, the purple stain, and under the care of her talented fingers she knew that bones would mend and cuts would heal. So what if she felt what they did, and now it was Ethan's headache that settled deep in her mind, and Ethan's shoulder and neck muscles that burned her with his day's labour?

 _(I never listen to Donny, do I?)_

Donny understood, curse him. She should have told him that the poor rabbit wasn't enough. If she weren't careful this month, he would need to bring a dog next time. And the larger and more intelligent the animal, the more she hated herself.

Wow, Ethan had had a hard day.

"Thank you," Ethan breathed, getting up easily out of the chair, his face suddenly glowing with energy. Inwardly she rejoiced. She did that.

"That feels so much better. You've got magic fingers, Tara."

"What?" she gasped. Her whole face flushed and she hated it. "No, no magic, just m-massage. That's all."

Ethan cocked a single, adorable eyebrow at her overreaction, but then gently grabbed her elbow to guide her down the hallway the short way to his office. As supervisor of the West Wing (the hospice was quite large, with a whole wing for imaging and other tests, another wing for rehabilitation, and two patient wings), he was entitled to an actual office and it was there he led her, seating her on a plain wooden chair before sitting behind his desk overflowing with paperwork.

"What's going on?" Tara asked.

"Oh, I want a smoke," Ethan moaned, ruffling his hair and Tara suppressed a smirk. "Well, down to business," he said, opening a slim folder on his desk. He rifled through a few pages, then sighed.

"Are you ready for a new patient, Tara? Because we've got a pretty special circumstance here."

And all Tara could feel was relief. She wouldn't have to lie to her father about not wanting to come home. Now she could have a legitimate reason to stay. But then she lifted an eyebrow. This was very unusual; the hospice was usually quite rigid on its rule of down time – there were other nurses who were available. Even if Ethan wanted to give her the responsibility of a new patient, a split-shift nurse would usually take over for the first week, giving her the mandatory week off. Why would Ethan risk that ruling?

She didn't need to ask the question; at her cocked eyebrow, Ethan continued, "Actually, you've been specially requested."

Tara's head, which had been hanging somewhat

 _(Oh, Ethan, you had a terrible headache, didn't you…)_

shot upwards. "What?" she asked.

"Let me tell you what we know of this patient," Ethan said, pulling a cigarette out of a battered case he kept in his desk drawer. He took it in his fingers and rolled it in his hands. Tara knew he must be upset; he would never light it, but he usually didn't need to hold one anymore.

"The patient's name is Willow Rosenberg." He looked at her as if he expected the name to mean something to her. It didn't. Ethan continued, "She's 23 years old and the sole survivor of the Sunnydale incident that occurred a week ago."

No, not possible.

Tara's eyes widened, and a faint prickling of remembered terror/bliss ran through her. Was this for real? She knew that sometimes her dreams were prophetic, and now her heart began beating in earnest remembrance of the woman

 _(her lips)_

and the singular stirring within her gut. Tara felt like she was falling into an abyss, with white noise whirring in her ears, so she could barely hear Ethan continue.

Not possible, not for her.

"I vaguely remember the news reports," Ethan said. "In her file it says that this girl was found in a smashed-up school bus just inside the crater. From all accounts it looks like people were trying to flee the implosion, but they just couldn't make it out in time. There were five or six people in the bus, mostly young girls, teenagers, but they were all dead by the time rescuers came. Only Ms. Rosenberg survived."

"What sort of condition is she in?" Tara asked, her voice weak.

Ethan heavily ran through the list, "She was nearly disembowelled with a deep cut across her abdomen. She also has various puncture wounds, including a through and through with a sword, it is believed."

"A sword," Tara echoed in near-disbelief.

Ethan ignored her to continue, "She has a vicious bite on her neck that no one can identify. Both legs were trapped in the bus wreckage and mangled severely, though not broken. One lung is collapsed, as something heavy struck her in the chest, leaving terrible lacerations. But the most severe is head trauma. She has a broken skull. She is in a coma, but has stabilised this past week and is ready for transfer from the overworked Los Angeles hospital."

"And she's coming here? How can she afford it?" Tara asked, incredulous. She knew that the Los Osos Hospice was one of the best in the country, and therefore the most expensive. Mr. Whitney's wealth had bought him a place here, to die in a level of peace and comfort most people simply could not afford.

Ethan sat back, dropping the file and drank from a cup of coffee that looked too cool to be pleasant. "Well, that's something else that's interesting. She hasn't had any relatives come to see her."

"Wait. No relatives? None?" Tara's heart, already melted into a soft pile of luscious goo, descended into further depths of compassion. Was there no one who cared about this girl? About her survival?

 _Could she be so much like me?_

Ethan frowned and shook his head before continuing. "The only way they identified her was through dental records. On those records her emergency contacts are listed as her parents: Ira and Sheila Rosenberg, but their address is also in Sunnydale. It is possible that they also died in the accident."

Tortured to death and orphaned. Not a good day for Ms. Rosenberg.

Ethan couldn't understand the emotions constantly flickering through Tara's face. Part bewildered, part concerned, all he could do was continue, "But, apparently, an anonymous donor has come forward with a trust fund for her. Not knowing how long Ms. Rosenberg would need care I did the unthinkable and asked how much was in said fund." Ethan paused, not above a sense of dramatics.

"And?" Tara asked, leaning forward in her chair, her heart beating uncomfortably hard.

"Strange fellow. A Brit, I think," Ethan replied, grimacing at the taste of coffee in his mouth. He noticed Tara staring sharply at him and continued, "Several million dollars. Enough to keep her in care here for a very long time."

"So who requested me?" Tara asked, starting to feel a little dizzy.

"Same British fellow. Wouldn't leave his name. But he was adamant about you. Said they wouldn't place her here if you couldn't be her care-giver."

Ah, Tara thought. Finally, he gets to the point.

Ethan also seemed to realise this was the important moment, and he clasped his hands benevolently and looked softly at her, suddenly noticing how tired and drawn she looked. Had she looked like that when she first arrived? No, she had seemed rested, vivacious… what had happened? He shook his head. "We need the business, Tara," he said softly. "I know it's too soon after Mr. Whitney, but can you take her?"

Tara gave Ethan a low smile, then pulled the file towards her. She flipped to the first page, then gasped as all the colour ran from her face. Enough was enough. It simply wasn't possible. No. Dreams do not come true, not in real life. Not for her. If they did, wouldn't her mother still be alive?

 _At least now I know her name._

"What?" Ethan asked, dropping his cigarette in surprise.

"This is her?" Tara asked, pointing to the picture paper-clipped to the front page in the files. Ethan was flummoxed at Tara's reaction and looked at the picture again. Tara had seen plenty of patients before, some in worse shape than this. So why was she suddenly ashen-faced and trembling? Granted, the girl in the picture was striking, but mostly in a my-god-she's-beat-up kind of way. Well, that and the white white hair.

"Yes, that's her," he equivocated. "Is there something wrong, Tara?"

 _(the lamb, I am the lamb)_

Tara could only stare at the picture, remembered ecstasy crackling through her veins, making her break out in goosebumps. It was undeniably the woman from her dream, the woman who had captured her soul and led it away a prisoner, a woman she had never met.

And there was fear, and the soiled taste of death and madness in her mouth.

 _(you took too much, Tara)_

"I am the lamb," Tara whispered.

"What?" Ethan asked again, and the small note of panic in his voice finally alerted Tara. She looked up at him, then visibly shook herself.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, blinking. "Yes, yes, of course I'll take her. When does she arrive?"

"Late tomorrow morning," Ethan answered, still confused. "She's coming by ambulance from Los Angeles." Tara didn't answer, for she had turned all her considerable attention once more to the photograph.

"Tara?" Ethan asked, "do you know this girl?"

And Tara looked up and blinked yet again. Ethan sat back in surprise. Over the past year he had come to know Tara, probably more than she realised, and knew that she only blinked and ducked her head when she was seriously confused or nervous. And never like this.

"No," Tara breathed. "I've never seen her before."

 _(Liar!)_

Tara knew he couldn't understand. He may be a tremendous doctor, brilliant administrator and an outrageous flirt, but he had no comprehension of the filters between the realities of this universe. How could he believe that she was a prophetess, among other things? A seer, a fortune-teller, a dreamer, and a witch? Such things died out with the Knights of the Round Table. Certainly every couple hundred years a powerful wizard/prophet came to the notice of the world at large, the most notable contemporary being Rasputin, but Tara regarded herself as only a drifting mite in the vast sea of modern wizardry. Easily missed among the mighty Krakens who trolled the depths of the magics, seeking answers to impossible riddles and solutions to impossible problems. What influence does a mite have in such a fathomless sea?

But there was this girl now, and Tara had dreamt of her, and now Tara shuddered to think of the impending cataclysm, for is love anything but disaster? Would she be swallowed whole, used up and vomited forth as her mother so dreadfully predicted? Or would she find in this new charge the reason for her entire jaded existence? Would this woman's lips, hands, heart and soul be worth the dreaded purple stain?

 _(for the love of this woman, you will surely die)_

From this moment on, nothing would be the same.


	5. God-Touched

**Chapter Five**

 **God-Touched**

Tara Maclay, RN, prophet-dreamer, truth seeker, and chocolate lover sat on a plain plastic chair next to the occupied hospital bed in what was so recently

 _(deathspace)_

Peter Whitney's room. When Ethan asked her where she would like to place her new client, Tara immediately chose late Mr. Whitney's room. On the outside she said it was because of the singularly spectacular view of the waterfall in the garden courtyard (which her comatose patient may never see), but on the inside she knew much better. Mother Earth had a way of absorbing energies from her inhabitants, and Tara knew this was sacred ground, hallowed by her diligent love and devotion and the sweet passing of innocent Mr. Whitney. If she closed her eyes, she could almost sense the peaceful threads of eternity right here, for it was in this very spot that the heavenly host came to escort him to an eternal home strikingly free of pain and heartache. The passage of the gods through the filters of the worlds left a distinctive mark, like a delicious scent or a ghostly footprint, to be sensed by anyone with purity of soul. The air practically shimmered with it, as even the dust motes sensed the glory of the gods and for a brief moment became one in purpose and intention with them. What better space for a healer's work?

Even the sun seemed to enter this room with a kind of peaceful deference. Soft rays of early afternoon illuminated the room and bathed the unconscious woman in the hospital bed in a halo of light, teasing Tara with remembered images of the goddess in her dream. It didn't shock Tara to see Willow's eyes open; all patients in comas would still spontaneously open or close their eyes, an interesting fact never portrayed in Hallmark movie-of-the-week deathbed romances. Besides, it was obvious to anyone with a brain that, though her sea green eyes may be open, there was essentially nothing behind them. The soul was in hiding, all run away with the shock of the bus accident.

 _(the first)_

Tara had held Willow's immobile hand as the paramedics wheeled her into her new home, watched steadily as they transferred her to her new bed, and eagerly closed the door behind them. Now she was finally alone with Willow, and her trained eyes examined all the machines dedicated to keeping this woman alive.

Reaching for the clipboard always resident at the foot of the bed, Tara read through some columns, then signed her name. Reaching for the blood pressure cuff, Tara tenderly placed it around the woman's upper arm, clucking at the profusion of cuts and bruises. In moments she had taken Willow's blood pressure and temperature and dutifully recorded them.

Seeing everything in order, Tara looked over to the door to confirm that it was still closed and took a deep breath. Time to start the physical examination. Tara took Willow's left hand in one of her own, feeling her clammy skin, and with her other hand very gently stroked Willow's forehead, her fingers straying to the dishevelled white mangled hair. Tara wondered if the trauma had caused her hair to whiten. It was extremely rare, but it did sometimes happen. It simply didn't look natural on her, made her seem pale and insignificant, a far cry from the dynamic woman who had so fully enchanted her in her dream.

Tara looked into those deadened green eyes and said, "Honey, my name is Tara Maclay. I'm your nurse." Her thumb made comforting little circles on Willow's hand. "I'm your protector now, I'm the one who is going to take care of you. I know you've been through some scary things, and maybe the place you've gone to in your mind is a haven for you. I just want you to know that you are safe here with me, that the world is safe again for you, that I'm going to protect you and care for you."

There was no answer, no flicker of movement in Willow's fingers, but Tara didn't expect any. She released Willow's hand, laid it gently on the coverlet and stared searchingly at her face. Tara rose to stand by the bed and began to take an inventory of Willow's injuries.

Her new charge was very small and soft and vulnerable, with a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. There was a gaping bald spot on Willow's head where a long gash had been stitched, short black bristles of thread contrasting painfully with her white hair. Another long and ragged laceration across her temple to her jawbone was sprouting black bristles and Tara desperately hoped she could heal it without any scarring. It would be a travesty to mar such a perfect face. Willow's lips looked a little dry and chapped with a slowly healing gash by the corner of her mouth. There was a healing scrape on her forehead, and her vacant eyes looked devastating surrounded as they were by dark circles of exhaustion and malaise.

Tara tenderly untied the strings holding Willow's robe closed and folded the coverlet across. Murmuring words of endearment, Tara lifted the robe to expose Willow's chest. Not that she could see very much skin at all; Willow's torso was almost completely covered with crusted bandages, desperately needing a change. Tara got up and strode to the sink. Pouring water into a stainless steel bowl, Tara got a cloth and returned to the bed. Ethan had said there was a bite on Willow's neck, so her fingers strayed first to that large bandage directly over her collarbone. Carefully tugging and using the water to soften and remove the bandage, Tara gasped as she first beheld the terrible bite on Willow's neck. To her horror, the first image that came to her mind was from the movie 'Sleepy Hollow' when the Hessian first showed his fanged and malicious smile, each tooth filed to razor sharpness. Something similar had bitten Willow, something almost human, and Tara wondered if all the rumours she had ever heard about Sunnydale were true. The Demon Hunter slash Witch Doctor that Tara had grudgingly accepted as her informant had once told her that Sunnydale was a haven for vampires. She had never quite believed it, and found that scepticism within herself to be highly unusual. After all, she herself was a witch

 _(a drifting mite)_

of no small power. Highly hypocritical of her to accept her own gifts yet deny the existence of others. So. Willow was bitten by a vampire. Maybe the story of a sword wound would now make sense.

She cast her apologetic eyes down Willow's bare chest. Here she could see the deep purplish yellow bruising of a broken rib and collapsed lung. There was a large and crusty bandage just above Willow's right breast and Tara started to work it off. Underneath was a horrific scrape, all scabbed over and leaking pus. A long bandage on Willow's lower abdomen, once soaked off, revealed bristly stitches and swollen infection around her near-fatal gut wound. Someone _(something!)_ had tried to eviscerate this woman, and nearly succeeded. Tara found anger boiling within her, and she had to take several calming breaths to restore her nerves.

Still breathing deeply, Tara saw that there was a smaller bandage on Willow's right side, which Tara painstakingly removed to reveal the once-dubious sword wound. The cut was unmistakable, and Tara carefully lifted Willow to work off the bandage for the exit wound on Willow's lower back. So. Willow was skewered like a pig in a slaughterhouse. Tara felt that deep flush of anger return to creep along her bones. "Sweetheart, who did this to you?" Tara asked.

Conscious of the sleeping woman's privacy, Tara deftly covered Willow's top as she continued her examination. Willow was shockingly thin, whether naturally or because of a steady diet of IV fluid. More bandages came off of Willow's battered arms, and Tara's heart melted to see the scrapes on Willow's knuckles, realising that Willow had tried to fight back the horrors coming straight for her. Carefully positioning Willow on her side, Tara steadily worked to clean various cuts and scrapes on Willow's shoulders and back. Then repositioning Willow on her back, Tara came at last to Willow's legs. Tara meticulously removed the old bandages to take stock of the injuries. It was obvious her legs had been trapped under something heavy; they were riddled with deep cuts and scrapes and Tara marvelled at the amount of blood Willow had to have lost while waiting for rescue. How did she possibly survive? And no broken bones?

Tara was a realist. A few years ago she may have been furious that the gods would allow such horrible things to happen to good people. It was a victim's attitude, a prevalent attitude that would have such people curse the gods and die. But now, even in the face of such evidence against overwhelming evil, Tara could only believe that some good would yet come of it all. After all

 _(god is in the why)_

what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.

 _(Liar!)_

Tara knew that Willow's cuts and scrapes needed oxygen, so she carefully laid Willow's cool hands by her sides, taking care of Willow's right hand laced with her IV, and laid light linen over Willow's privates, leaving the rest of her injuries to the air. Tara glanced once more around her to make sure the door was closed and then she drew the curtain around Willow's bed. She felt an intense sort of protectiveness for Willow, and she didn't want anyone else to see her all exposed like this.

As Tara got up to take the bloodied bowl of water to the sink, she examined that feeling of possessiveness. It was true that she often felt deeply for her patients, and that her professors and teachers had often warned her against it, trying to scare her with tales of burnout and emotional exhaustion. But for Tara there was simply no other way. Charity and love were essential ingredients for her healing magic to work, and the more animosity she felt to a person the harder it was to heal them, as she lamentably discovered when her father had once broken his wrist. He had not been so impressed with her gifts that day.

Tara dumped the bloodied water and deftly washed her hands, looking over at the curtain separating her from her new charge. Was it really so wrong to feel this way for a patient? Could true hurt come from her selfless love? Willow Rosenberg was just another girl, wasn't she? She felt this strongly for anyone, didn't she?

 _(Liar!)_

And she tried to harden her heart, to pretend that this girl, this Willow, was no different from the rest. No matter that the physical attraction she felt for the woman was as a terrific magnet. No good could come of it. Tara could work her healing magic without being in love. She had taken Mr. Whitney's pain, didn't she? Willow was a patient, Tara was her nurse. The bounds of their relationship protected her. So be hard, Tara, be hard.

As she returned to Willow's bedside she looked outside, at the birds gaily chirping in the cradled embrace of the blossoming trees, the fairy sparkles of sunlight glinting from the waterfall, the soft green filter of leaves embossed with delicate veins. The world could be such a place of beauty.

And as Tara stood thus, her gentle heart wrenched within her for the horrors that this poor girl must have seen and experienced. There, in the lustrous sunlight of a summer afternoon, Tara felt a wall within her dissolve, like a coin turning, like a shadow exposed to light,

 _(be hard, Tara!)_

and she finally let herself feel for this woman. The waves of emotion she finally allowed to pour from her caused her to choke back a sob, and she clutched her arms around her middle. Her soft brown hair fell in front of her face, obscuring the sunlight, but to Tara that suddenly didn't matter anymore.

She had a new sun.

Her soul _shifted,_ and as Tara closed her eyes, she could _feel_ the woman on the bed behind her. The woman pulsed with a light more glorious than sunlight, moonlight, and starlight combined, and Tara's hungry soul eagerly turned away from those conventional lights to face the

 _(Willow light)_

new light, the love light, her new north star.

Could she save her?

Desperate to stop the tide of tears, yet constantly feeling the smouldering soulfire of Willow Rosenberg, the ache that rose within her could not be extinguished, and Tara began to weep, her breath pouring forth in hitching sobs. Her throat constricted and her eyes throbbed as lines of tears furrowed down her face. Latent pain ebbed and flowed so fiercely through her body that Tara could do naught but cry. She wept for Peter Whitney, she wept for the poor black rabbit, she wept for the broken thing lying

 _(dying!)_

on the hospital bed behind her.

And finally, Tara wept for herself, for the childhood she would never celebrate, for the family she would never have, for the stark emptiness of a future devoid of love.

So Tara battled, there in the delicate peace of Willow's hospital room, a battle all the more titanic for its silence. So she wept, so she struggled.

So she lived.

Tara finally opened her eyes and raised her tear-stricken face to the heavens. It took a few minutes to calm herself, for the hitching breath to finally ease, and as she waited an iron resolve formed within her soul. No hardness. Not anymore. Only love. She clenched her jaw, tucked her brown hair behind her ears and turned to face Willow once more.

The previous examination was the easy part. Now for the really informative assessment, the one that only Tara could do. Tara pulled the hospital bed gently away from the wall until there was enough space behind Willow's head for her to sit on her stool. She composed herself for a moment, suddenly afraid of what she might find in there,

 _(not even the poet knows the end from the beginning)_

in the comatose mind of vampire-bitten, knife-sliced, sword-clenched Willow. Tara took a deep and calming breath, then deftly placed her sensuous fingers on Willow's head, taking great care not to disturb the broken skull within but desperately needing the close physical proximity of her patient's mind. She allowed her eyes to close

 _(approach the barrier, don't push it)_

and focused on the calm, even breathing of the broken girl before her.

"Dearest heart, let me in," she breathed.

For Willow, Tara had prepared a special tree. It was a tree from her youth, enormous yet graceful, with showering curtains of green leaves, a weeping willow. She remembered hiding behind that glowing curtain in the heat of a summer afternoon, when she could smell an approaching thunderstorm in the wind-strewn dust of the family farm. It was safe under the weeping willow, an organic womb to shelter her from the big bad world, a place to daydream and create fantasy futures of delight and enchantment. There she would not be merely tolerated, or even merely loved, but beloved. Essential.

With exacting care Tara fashioned this tree and sent it to the barrier of Willow's beleaguered mind. A little push, and the tree materialised on the other side.

Ah.

 _(so this is how she's still alive)_

The very moment Tara's gentle mind touched the mind of Willow Rosenberg, the world as she knew it shattered. The hospice room she sat in with Willow may have been God-touched, but Willow's mind was God-ravaged. The fine silken heaven-threads that Tara felt within the room

 _(Mr. Whitney's last hurrah)_

paled next to the insistent white _presence_ in Willow's mind. Tara began to lose her composure. This pale and seemingly insignificant woman had been a genuine avatar, and had surrendered her will completely, like a little child, to the limitless power of the gods.

Tara shrank from the enormity of the task that Willow must have faced. The power within Willow was deeper and greater than Tara thought could exist within a human, and threatened to pull Tara in with the sucking force of a maelstrom. Recognising that her mind could be snuffed here with the ease of blowing out a birthday candle, Tara shrank away from that infinite depth, and took a mental step away from the brink.

Among these revelations, and within this holy and transcendent place that still pulsed with the touch of the goddess, Tara looked for the weeping willow tree that she had brought into Willow's mind. She watched it blacken and shrivel until it was an abomination of it's former self. And she grieved to see it arrayed thus, a far too potent sign of Willow's impending death. Tara knew her wounds were grievous, but Willow was on the mend, wasn't she? Her body was healing; she was no longer critical. Why then was her death so close?

And then her own mind, nestled as it was in the protective folds of Willow's God-ravaged mind, sensed that she was not alone here.

Tara whirled around, looking for Willow, and found someone else.

To Tara's everlasting astonishment, she looked through the blackened curtain of Willow's tree to behold a girl-child calmly sitting cross-legged on the winter-blasted ground. She was wearing a simple immaculate white linen shift and there were grass-stains on her feet, surely some remnant of another, happier, greener place. The child's head was endowed with a living crown of daisies, perched solemnly atop golden curls. Part of Tara's mind wished to believe that this was some incarnation of Willow as a child, but she truly knew it wasn't. It was a lie to protect her from the insistent white god-curtain that burst from this child with a pulsing force. The _presence_ was concentrated here, and Tara reeled back from the child, shading her eyes as if beholding a solar eclipse.

The girl beckoned to Tara, and before her bemused mind could give the command to move forward Tara felt an insistent pull behind her navel button, as if this child were calmly fishing her from the sea. She automatically moved forward, then sat down across from the child. In the

 _(deathspace)_

empty ground between them, Tara watched as a low table flickered into existence. But Tara's eyes were drawn away from the table, inexorably pulled to the solemn blue eyes of the child.

"I've been waiting for you, Tara."


	6. Chalice

Chapter Six

Chalice

"I've been waiting for you, Tara," the girl said, her palms resting comfortably on her knees.

"Y-You've been waiting for me?" Tara replied, cursing herself for her hugeness, her clumsiness, and her stupidity. "B-but who are you?"

"I am the goddess Aranaea," the child simply replied.

Something within Tara's mind clicked with certainty, and though her rational mind would have her disbelieve the child's words, she knew the truth. After all, she could see the heaven-threads right here, right now. "What are you doing here?" Tara asked.

"Saving the world." The child-goddess said the words so offhand that Tara could barely understand them.

"Saving the world?" Tara whispered, then she looked around her at the blackened womb of Willow's hell-blasted tree. "Who is this girl?" Tara asked, desperate to know why, oh why was Willow so special?

In response, the child

 _(goddess)_

waved her hand at the table and there appeared a magnificent chalice made of the finest crystal, glinting off the soulfire of the goddess. The goblet was deep and pure and Tara thought she'd never seen anything quite so beautiful ever before. Aranaea's eyes looked steadily into Tara's, and she said, "Willow Rosenberg is the last best hope of this world." The goddess paused, then said, "Tara, you have no comprehension of the sacrifices this precious woman has made for the inhabitants of not only this world, but countless others."

But anguished Tara could recall the desperate Willow-wounds, from the cuts and bites to the most horrible shattering of her skull, and she thought that maybe she could comprehend it. Tara sat back in that quiet reflection, her eyes going back and forth from the chalice to the devastated ground until Aranaea made a curious gesture, gently forcing Tara's eyes to meet her own.

"For the past year, the First evil has been waging war on the world, centering its offensive in Sunnydale, the home of the Slayer. But it was the power of this lone woman that decided the outcome." Aranaea stopped long enough to concentrate her gaze to the withered ground next to the table, Tara's eyes helplessly following. The weapon

 _(scythe)_

winked into existence, and Tara recognised it's ferocity, it's gleaming edge, it's waves of power. And Tara could almost see the link between scythe and soul, that Willow had consumed the power of this weapon entirely in her dire need. In a quiet voice, for to speak of such things in irreverence would be catastrophic, Aranaea said, "Willow Rosenberg is the single most powerful witch alive on the earth, and her insistent call brought me out of hiding. I merged my will with hers, and together we used the mystical power of the scythe to turn every Potential Slayer into a true Slayer, with all the powers that came with the calling."

Tara should have been confused with this welter of words and concepts outside her natural ken, but the link of her mind with Willow and the goddess revealed flashes of images that testified of the tale. She could almost see them, as if through a thin grey filter.

"But the powers of the gods are limited to the power of the vessel," Aranaea sadly continued. "And Willow was attacked before we could complete our work to eradicate the First, to repair the rift they made to come to our plane of existence. If only," and Aranaea stopped and looked away from Tara with tears in her eyes, and Tara was mystified at the sheer magnitude of this tiny goddess's love for Willow.

Finally the child-goddess returned her reddened gaze to Tara's eyes, smiled wistfully and snapped her fingers.

The crystal chalice shattered into a thousand pieces, and finally Tara understood. She reached over to take a shard in her fingers, to delicately touch the gleaming edge, as the crystal ever shone in the glow of the goddess.

"The powers of the gods are limited to the power of the vessel," Tara repeated. "And the vessel broke."

Aranaea nodded. "There was nothing I could do, except sustain her physical body as best as I could. I chose to stay, and every wound she received I felt as if in my own flesh." Aranaea gasped, crying in the remembrance of it, and again Tara could see the ghostly images of the vampires surrounding Willow, their knives slicing her abdomen, their swords piercing her, until she was borne down into the dust, her cherished head dashed to the floor.

"Faith saved her," the child-goddess continued, and for a moment Tara was confused, wondering if the goddess was speaking metaphorically, until she saw the mirage, an image of a Slayer picking up Willow's broken body and taking her to the bus. "But they weren't fast enough." Tara saw as the bus tumbled back down the newly formed canyon, tossing the girls inside it like dolls. "And rescue took far too long," Aranaea wept. "How I wished to save them all, these brave and precious women who gave their lives so freely so the world could live in peace. But dearest Willow was my last hope, and needed every ounce of my protection, so I had to, I had to let them go, I had to sacrifice them in order to save her." Aranaea was crying freely now, and Tara's benevolent heart wrenched within her at the terrible choice, her own eyes now gleaming with tears.

Aranaea finally looked at Tara, and there was something in her gaze, some deep knowledge that actually frightened her. "I kept her alive, Tara, but it is up to you to save her."

"Me?" Tara spluttered. "B-but you're..."

Tara was going to say, "You're a goddess, why don't you do it?" but Aranaea interrupted, saying once again, "The powers of the gods are limited to the power of the vessel. I have no power here. You do."

Tara was held spellbound by the fierce determination in the child's eyes. Aranaea looked at Tara with a hint of wonder and then Tara felt the god-curtain wash over her, as Aranaea's presence surrounded her, and pierced her. And within Tara's mind were many doors, each of them latched tightly and warded against entry, imprisoning the fearsome beasts inside, her malicious memories that had to be just so contained or she would lose her humanity. And the god-curtain swept under the doors, and through the keyholes, and blessed the rooms within, and sanctified them, and celebrated the glorious win.

Tara sat as doors opened, and there was no more horror, only love. And the precious child-goddess whispered, "You have no idea, do you?"

And as Tara sat cross-legged on the blighted ground, she could feel the edges of her consciousness blur with sensory overload. The whirling storm of magical energy surrounding her, the insistent showers of god-presence emanating from the child like a nuclear reactor, the disquieting dimness of the blackened leaf-curtain; a part of her wanted to curl up into a little ball and gibber in madness.

But once again the insistent sapphire eyes of the child-goddess held her, grounded her, and for a few moments Tara was allowed to calm herself, to quiet her breathing, to shut out the madness around her. Only then did she remember what the child had just asked.

"No idea of what, exactly?" Tara asked, regaining her composure and a little of her trademark cheekiness.

"Who you are!" Aranaea replied in near-exasperation. "Humans! How is it possible that you can't feel your own destiny? Do you really think so little of yourself?"

Tara hung her head and thought

 _(a drifting mite)_

that yes, she thought little of herself.

And the goddess tweaked that little memory from her, and reached forth her small and delicate child's hands across the shards of crystal on the low table to take Tara's huge and clumsy ones. She gripped them tightly, and then growled, "Tara. **You** are the Kraken."

 _(trolling the depths of the magics)_

 _No, impossible._

Between their conjoined hands a massive vessel emerged, another chalice, larger and somehow more ornate than Willow's. Aranaea tightly squeezed Tara's hands again and said, "This, my dearest Tara, child of my heart, is you." She finally released Tara's hands to sit back down on her heels.

Tara could only stare at the goblet in front of her. Didn't Aranaea just say that Willow was the most powerful witch on the earth? Correctly interpreting her silence, Aranaea said, "There are few women like you on earth right now. There are warlocks and witches in plenty, and Willow is the greatest of them all, but true healers are very rare. I think there is a healer in India, and another in Romania. But **you** are the most powerful healer on earth. I should know, I was the one who created you."

Tara looked at the goddess with stark astonishment in her eyes, her mouth forming a question, but the insistence of the goddess in making her statement could not be stopped, and the child continued, saying, "And, in order for Willow to save the world, I need you to change this," and she waved at the crystal shards on the table, "into this."

With another snap of her fingers, Willow's chalice reformed as it had been, with no mark to tell the shattering tale. The goddess put her hands over the goblet and closed her eyes. Pure white liquid light poured from her palms to fill the chalice to overflowing, and Tara felt her heart ease in the pureness of the goddess' love. Aranaea opened her eyes once again; her piercing sapphire eyes that somehow saw everything of her, that swept the dark corners of her mind clean. "Save Willow, Tara," Aranaea whispered. "So Willow can save the world."

A heroine. A paladin of souls, a champion for good, the saviour of the world. Every childhood dream come true, and in the downcast humility of her pure heart, Tara balked one last time. "But goddess, who am I?"

Aranaea smiled a sweet sweet smile, and Tara drowned in it, thinking that if she were to smile like that at a woman that no one would ever tell her no. The child reached over the table, leaning to her and caressed her cheek with her little fingers, then kissed her lightly on the forehead. Tara could feel a searing heat at her forehead as if she had just been branded. But when the goddess turned to look at Tara again, holding Tara's cheeks in her hot little hands, Tara could see an unfathomable depth of sorrow in her eyes. A single tear coursed down Aranaea's cheek as her voice choked, "My dearest and most precious child, this time you will be the rabbit,"

 _(long thin streams of tar)_

"you are my sacrifice to save the world. You are the lamb."

Of course. To Tara's oft-bewildered mind, and even amidst the fury of magical energy surrounding her, this simple statement made the most perfect sense. No wonder she felt such love and devotion for this woman, this Willow. She must, in order to lay her life down for her.

And Tara looked inside her soul, at the dark rooms swept clean, and decided that yes, she would die for her new

 _(Willow-light)_

friend. She would die willingly, and a thousand times over, if it would keep this most precious woman alive. This final task, her last hurrah, would make sense of it all.

Suddenly Aranaea's head shot up, and she cocked her head as if she were listening to something. Tara turned her own head around, but could see nothing beyond the black curtain. But was the world here in Willow's mind getting dimmer? "I'm running out of time," Aranaea said, and Tara was shocked and frightened to hear a glimmer of fear in the child's voice. "There was so much more to tell you, why I did what I did to you and your family, but I'm afraid there is no more time."

 _My family? Wait._

Tara put up a hand, imploringly; anything to get the goddess to stay and interpret her last cryptic sentence, but Aranaea was already standing up and brushing off invisible dirt from her dress.

"Goddess, please!" Tara cried, stumbling up from the ground, knocking over the table that suddenly whisked out of existence. Aranaea picked up the scythe from the ground and held it towards Tara. It didn't seem right that such a little girl could have the strength to handle such a weapon.

"Take it, Tara, it's the only way to defeat him," the goddess said, thrusting the scythe at her.

"Him who?" Tara asked, senses reeling, holding out her hands to physically take the scythe, and finally reacting to the obvious fear roiling off the tiny goddess.

"Not like that!" Aranaea cried, almost sobbing with terror. Tara could see the world around them continue to darken, until an unhappy and uncertain twilight lay over the landscape of Willow's mind. Tara nodded, finally understanding, even through her fright. She put her fingers on the scythe

 _(so much colourful dust)_

and sharply inhaled. The scythe disintegrated, and her head snapped back as unfamiliar and primal power surged through her veins. She could feel her spine crackling with it, and wondered that it didn't burst from her eyes like lightning. It took a few moments for her to become adjusted to the new power within her, and by the time she recovered, the child-goddess was gone. And more than gone, for every ounce of peace and light in Willow's mind was vanished, leaving Tara in a dim and unknown world.

"Well now, missy, just who are you?"

Tara whirled around to behold a man walking toward her. She watched in horror as his booted feet burned the dead grass under his feet, leaving charred footprints. There was a cloud around him; a noxious miasma that was felt more than seen, like the odour of blood but not the stain. He was dressed as a preacher in dark clothes, the single white spot at his collar glowing, not with the god-light of Aranaea, but rather with the same putrid luminescence found on moulds and lichens in the dark of night. On the surface he seemed rather presentable, but Tara could feel the thin filter, the layer of scum on top, that would dirty his every move.

"This ain't the time for visiting, little lady," the preacher was saying, and Tara couldn't move a single muscle, couldn't claw her way back into her own body even though she was desperately seeking retreat. She closed her eyes and concentrated, visualising her body back in the hospice room, the feel of the afternoon sun on her face, Willow's hair underneath her hands. She ached to reverse, to withdraw, but some force held her, fished her from the mystical sea. In desperation

 _(trapped!)_

Tara opened her eyes. This had never happened before. She'd never been caught in someone's mind and unable to return. Had her mother ever told her this was possible? The darkness emanating from the preacher had her trapped in a dome of misery, and she felt horribly exposed, like the preacher could see every dark part of her, every little malice, every little lie, every little secret.

And every dark and malignant room that the child-goddess blessed was now multiplied in its ruination, its lies and secrets magnified in a damning legion of darkness, and even as Tara's well-trained mind raced to contain them all, to make little prisons again, she could feel the insidious clouds of hate and despair waft through her mind, poisoning everything they touched.

The preacher lifted a hand and casually waved it; whole branches of Willow's tree were suddenly obliterated, carving him a path directly to where she stood, trembling, trying to run, feeling a weird cementing of her feet. As she looked down in panic, she noticed that the earth had indeed swallowed her feet and began to slowly chew on her legs. Her throat constricted as she begged to scream, but another gesture from the preacher bricked up her mouth. So Tara flayed her arms, scratching desperately at the dead earth, until they too were

 _(chains of restraint)_

bound to her with invisible cords, leaving her neatly trussed like a hunting trophy. Tara could only moan behind her closed mouth as the earth slowly advanced up her legs. She closed her eyes again and tried to calm her breathing, seeking any way out of Willow's mind, because this wasn't real, none of this was real! But even with her eyes closed she could see two red pinpricks of hatred glowing from the preacher's eyes and she decided that if she was going to fight, she had better see her opponent.

So she opened her weary eyes, and she watched the terrible advance of the man,

 _(the long preacher, the dark hand, the silent might)_

the flickers of fire curling the dead tendrils of grass under his booted feet, the fog that surrounded and sustained him, and she knew true terror.

"So, thought you'd come a-calling in miss Willow's mind, didja?" the preacher asked amiably, looming over her sinking body. With another shot of genuine fright, Tara noticed that his eyes were completely black. "By rights, you don't belong here," he continued.

He stood up and walked away, and with another careless wave of his hand another huge branch of Willow's tree was devastated into dust. "I'm starting to get a mite ornery," he continued, "seeing all these people coming into Willow's brain, and I'm the only one that belongs."

The preacher then returned swiftly to Tara and hunkered down on his knees before her. "Time for you to understand something, little girl. Willow belongs to me. I am the First, and I will rain devastation and misery on her until she has paid what she owes. I will visit her with every mental torture, every destruction, every rack and ruin my immense mind can conjure up, until she is nothing but a wasteland. And this will I do because the others got away, in death they escaped, but Willow is alive, and I will **feed** on her."

And with another wave of his vile hand, he opened a window into Willow's mind, and showed her a scene of devastation so raw, so rank and gory that Tara wanted to gag on it. She could see Willow there, but Willow didn't have white hair, her hair was red, and she was endlessly stumbling through darkened streets, blood pouring from her wounds, reeling from one broken and beloved body to another, one Xander, one Buffy, one Giles, weeping and crashing and falling, her body landing in their ripe bloated balloon skins that would pop like a bubble, her hands and limbs covered with their putrid rotting organs, until the stench was forever in her nose and the giggling hordes of madness danced behind her eyes. This was what Willow was seeing, every moment of every day she lay comatose, and Tara could have screamed at the dreadfulness of it all.

The preacher saw the genuine horror in Tara's eyes and laughed at the pleasure of it. With another gesture he closed that window into Willow's mind, but it wasn't soon enough for Tara, for the images burned their way into her memory, creating more little rooms of misery, and part of her knew she would have nightmares about them for the rest of her life. "She will pay, little missy," he said, and he reached forth his terrible smooth hand and patted Tara lightly on the cheek. Under his touch Tara could feel her cheek burning and she wanted to scream through her bricked mouth. With a genuine smile of maliciousness, he added, "And there's nothing you can do about it. You think that you have power, but you're wrong. Dead wrong."

Tara's mind whirled in despair. There was no way out. No way to save herself, let alone Willow, and a part of her addled mind cursed the goddess for not warning her of the dangers here.

Tara felt a pinprick in her arm. She looked down to see that the earth had swallowed her up to her waist, but there was nothing on her arm. A whooshing sound filled her ears, and a strange sensation flooded through her veins. The preacher didn't seem to miss anything, and his face was contorted with hate as he saw her consciousness withdraw.

As Tara melted away, she could hear his voice, and it was all the more terrible for its quiet intensity. Locking his black eyes on hers, watching her escape, he merely stated, "It is said that even the powerful die."

Grabbing her nearly insubstantial face as it faded from him, he added, "And the meek shall inherit the earth."


	7. Ethan

Chapter Seven

Ethan

Dr. Ethan Daniels was proud. He stood at the West Wing nurse's station and looked down the gleaming hallways under his care. As he watched his nurses at their work, he reflected on the changes taking place within the hospice. Ten years ago it was simply a facility to aid in the gentle and comforting death of loved ones. But a younger board of directors had decided that it would make more sense, financially speaking, to also start a wing dedicated to long-term or rehab care. Not many people knew about it yet, they didn't have to advertise; word of mouth brought them the twelve patients they could install in the new wing. How did that Brit know about us, and why on earth did he ask for Tara?

Dr. Ethan Daniels was disturbed. He stood at the West Wing nurse's station and idly listened to Penny prattle on while steadily observing the closed door down the hallway. He had surreptitiously checked in on Tara several times throughout the course of the morning as she prepared the room for her new charge, rearranging the soft brown furniture, exchanging prints of sailboats that Mr. Whitney had loved for generic nature ones. She had plumped pillows umpteen number of times and endlessly scoured the already gleaming surfaces.

He received a sharp poke and turned to face Penny, rubbing his shoulder. "What?" he asked.

"You haven't heard a single word I said," she accused, waggling her finger at him.

"Guilty as charged," Ethan admitted, looking down the hallway.

"Are you worried about Tara?" Penny asked, following his gaze.

"A little. She didn't get any time off, and she's acting kinda funny," Ethan admitted.

Penny nodded. "She's got a soft heart, that one," Penny said. "I only hope she can keep her objectivity." Then she cleared her throat and continued, "I need you to authorize my patients requisition form, Ethan."

Ethan took the forms and retreated to his office, looking once more at the closed door down the hallway. It had been a little more than an hour since the ambulance with Willow Rosenberg had arrived, and Ethan had watched as Tara tenderly held the hand of her new patient as the paramedics wheeled her into her new room. He had seen that tender care, and was disturbed. Ethan could vividly remember last night's conversation with Tara, the confusion and amazement that had reigned on her face when she first saw the photo of Willow Rosenberg. Tara was obviously hiding something. But what?

Ethan couldn't admit that he knew very much about Tara. She was remarkably introverted for being such a competent nurse; many nurses were outgoing and vivacious, which accounted for their chosen profession. They also regularly vented about their job and its difficulties, one of the few ways to keep sane in a house of the diseased and dying. But never Tara. She was quiet, resourceful, and incredibly talented. It was obvious to him and everybody else that her every move was golden.

He could remember when he first interviewed her for a position at the hospice. He had been about to summarily reject her because of her age and lack of experience, but there were incredible reports in her nursing portfolio. Hospice work was difficult work, it bonded patients and nurses in unconventional ways and the rate of burnout was high. But Ethan had been so intrigued by her file, by the sheer number of 'miraculous recoveries' she had been a party to, and he vowed that he would have her, no matter how young, how inexperienced.

In the year since she had come to Los Osos, she had three patients, and every one of them had subsequently died from their illness. He distinctly remembered the first time she had announced that her patient, an eight-year-old boy, had been on the brink of death. Ethan hadn't really believed her, but decided to humour her, just in case. Her prediction was remarkable, the family was alerted just in time, and Chris had died in the arms of his mother and father. Ethan was ready to dismiss it as a fluke, but it happened again and again. Penny told him yesterday that she had predicted Mr. Whitney's death within hours once again. How did she do it?

Yes, she had been in Los Osos a year, but she still remained an enigma to most of the staff. He had pushed to get to know her, for a part of him had immediately fallen in love with her; a heady kind of excitement that he cherished every time it happened. He was far too experienced a bachelor to fall completely for her, and his careful overtures to her had been just as carefully rebuffed. And now he frowned to remember the night that she had finally taken him aside and told him, gently, as she did everything, that he was 'barking up the wrong tree', and he'd finally understood.

Was she in love with her new patient already? Would she cross the line? Would he have to fire her?

The very moment that Ethan took the new file in his hands, the Brit's demand for Tara dashing inside his skull, and looked at the photo, Ethan knew there could be trouble. Tara was soft; she loved her patients, and this poor Willow Rosenberg was about as beat up as a person could get and still be alive. She could also be Tara's first patient to actually recover in the hospice, provided they could bring her out of her coma. Willow was also Tara's first patient that was her own age, and Ethan's heart clenched in fear. Could anything keep Tara from falling for Willow? Oh, yes, Ethan knew the risks, and as much as they needed the business he almost told that saucy Brit to shove off. No person was worth having to fire Tara.

Would he regret his decision to bring her here?

Ethan took a moment to focus on the paperwork and in fifteen minutes brought it out to Penny who was monitoring the nurse's station. Willow should have been Penny's this week, while Tara took her week off, and Ethan knew Penny was curious why it was Tara in Willow's room. _Because of the sizeable contribution that Brit promised to make._ Thankfully, as supervisor, he really didn't have to defend his decisions to the other staff, and Penny was far too experienced a nurse to challenge him.

As he handed her the file he looked down the hall and noticed that the door was still closed. Making up his mind, Ethan strode down the hallway and silently opened the door to Willow's room. The room was awash in sunlight, deflected by the curtain pulled around Willow's bed. He blessed his soft shoes that didn't make any squeaking noise on the clean linoleum and snuck up to the curtain.

And there he stood, stock still, his heart double-wrenched in pity. Willow was lying on the bed with a clean linen shift lightly covering her privates and the sheer number of cuts and scrapes on her battered body amazed Ethan. Tara had done an admirable job of cleaning them, and made a good decision in letting them air out for a while. And Tara herself was standing silently by the window, her brown hair hanging over her face, her arms clenched tightly around her middle and she was sobbing as if her heart were breaking. Part of him wanted to rush to her, to embrace her, but a greater and wiser part knew that sometimes you just needed to be alone. So he just as silently retreated from the quiet room, closing the door carefully behind him, wondering, ever wondering if he had done the right thing.

"How is she?" Penny asked, taking note of Ethan's careworn expression.

"Tara or Ms. Rosenberg?" Ethan replied.

"Both."

"Well, Ms. Rosenberg looks like she'd been run over by a combine. I've never seen that many cuts and scrapes on a body before. Tara's doing fine by her." Ethan took advantage of the pause in conversation to grab a fresh cup of coffee and retreat back to his office, grimacing at the pile of paperwork he had yet to finish before the end of the day.

An hour later Ethan did his rounds, stopping by each patient's room to have a word with patient and nurse. He knocked on Willow's door this time and softly called, "Tara?" When there was no answer he opened the door and confidently strode to the bed. Tara had pulled it out and was sitting behind Willow's head, her eyes closed and her fingers on Willow's skull. Among the beeping of machines Ethan could hear them both breathing, and he smiled.

Ethan was aware of what Tara did with her new patients, though he didn't understand it at all. She had invited him to be present when she introduced herself to Mr. Whitney. They had chatted about this and that, and then Tara asked if she could try a trust exercise with him. Peter had looked rather intrigued by the proposition, and had willingly closed his eyes and deepened his breathing. For a long half hour Ethan watched as neither of them moved, Tara's eyes closed and fingers on Peter's head, but there was a deepening expression of wonder on both their faces. He could only watch as they enjoyed some sort of joining or communion.

And he was envious of that communion.

So Ethan remembered, and he could now see that same expression of unearthly delight on Tara's face, though the comatose face of Willow Rosenberg showed nothing. He left Tara to her most important work, and continued on his rounds.

Immured in his office once again, Ethan only realised that hours and hours had passed when the light in his room began to grow dim. He looked at his watch and noted that it was almost seven in the evening, and he was surprised that Tara hadn't peeked into his office to tease him about his mountains of paperwork. Concerned, Ethan got up and went right out to the nurse's station.

"Has Tara come out?" he asked Penny.

"Nope," Penny replied shortly, counting pills into the little containers.

Ethan went swiftly to Willow's room, leaving the door open in his haste. And there Tara still sat, her fingers spread spider-like over Willow's skull, and Ethan's heart caught in his throat. Her face showed an indescribable expression of peace and devotion, and it almost seemed as if rays of some godly light poured from her, though his practical mind attributed such luminescence to the evening light coming in through the window. He was spellbound; he stood and watched Tara for long minutes, as her face continued to show a sort of gloriousness he had never experienced before.

But wait.

What in frilly heck was going on here?

Under his concerned gaze Ethan witnessed the impossible. Tara's felt melted, and reformed in a contortion of pure terror. Her mouth opened in a silent 'O' of surprise and shock, and her body went rigid.

But even more astonishing was what was happening to Willow Rosenberg. In a flush that started from the roots, her hair darkened to a bloody red, a wave of colour that slowly cascaded from root to tip, and Ethan's jaw gaped. Impossible.

Unmistakeable. Willow's white hair was now red.

I've got to stop this.

Ethan rushed to Tara's contorted body and roughly grabbed her shoulders. "Tara, time to wake up," he said, shaking her rather roughly, but her fingers seemed to be glued to Willow's blood red hair. "Tara," he said again, louder and more urgently, and vainly pulled at her fingers. Instead of waking and letting go of Willow's head, Tara simply lifted her own head and with her eyes still glued shut, she screamed.

And Willow went into cardiac arrest.

Although Ethan knew that the nurse's station would be immediately alerted of the heart failure, he still shouted, "Penny, get in here!" He ripped aside the curtain and put his ear against Willow's defiled chest. Nothing. He could hear the commotion in the hallway as the nurse alerted others and came rushing in. From a cupboard in the room Penny grabbed the defibrillator and pushed it over to Ethan. He swiftly calibrated the machine as Penny spread the gel on the pads, then thrust them at him. April, another nurse, was already preparing an injection of epinephrine to put in Willow's IV.

And throughout it all, Tara's hands remained glued to Willow's head, and her face was streaming in tears, and her breath came in short shocking gasps.

"Clear!" Ethan shouted, placing the pads over Willow's chest.

"Clear," affirmed Penny, and Ethan shocked Willow, looking at her heart monitor for any response. There was none. The monitor was still buzzing its deathsong, it's flat final note.

"Again! Clear!" Ethan said, and shocked Willow again. This time the device did it's work, and Willow's battered heart began beating again. "IV push," he demanded, taking the syringe April had prepared and slowly injecting it into Willow's IV, watching the monitors the entire time. When the syringe was empty, he returned it to April's hands, and strode quickly to the defib cart. Fingers fluttering quickly through vials, he finally found what he was looking for and prepared another syringe.

But instead of going to Willow, Ethan went to the trembling and semi-conscious Tara, swabbed disinfectant on her arm, and quickly jabbed her with the needle. "Wake up, Tara," he muttered, slowly depressing the plunger. Around him he could hear the two other nurses attaching the life support systems to Willow. At this moment, Ethan didn't really care about Willow. What he cared about was Tara.

He had only moments to wait before her eyelids fluttered, the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Tara shuddered awake with a mighty gasp; her eyes flying open in darkened terror, she ripped her hands away from Willow's head as if they were burning. She rose from the stool, stumbling, and lifted a hand to her mouth as she gasped, "Oh, God, Willow!" Then Tara tripped on the stool and landed heavily on her hands, her arms trembling, and she vomited on the floor.

"Is Willow stable?" Ethan asked as he bent down to pick Tara up off the floor.

"Yes, sir," Penny answered, her voice crisp and businesslike.

Tara was trembling violently in his arms, and he gently held her by the shoulders. "April, take Tara to the staff room and stay with her," he said, passing her to the other nurse. April drew her arm comfortingly over Tara's shoulders and half-supported her as she lurched her way to the door. Ethan looked over his shoulder and could see Tara look back at Willow, agony written plainly on her face. Then she finally retreated, and he bent back to his work, a million questions running through his mind.

"What on earth was all that about?" Penny whispered over Willow's suffering body.

"I really don't know," was his only reply.

It was almost an hour later before Ethan finally left Willow's room. The young woman had stabilised once more, but he wanted to make sure that no repeat arrests would happen. John had come on shift and had taken over Ethan's vigil, so Ethan went to find Tara.

He found his brown-haired nurse hunched over in her favourite yellow chair in the staff room, holding a steaming cup of tea, April seated on the chair next to her. Tara looked up as Ethan approached and he was relieved to see her eyes clear and attentive, free of the dread and terror that had painted them so terribly. April got up and turned to leave as he approached, and he squeezed her hand as she left. "Are you all right, Tara?"

And he could practically see the wall form behind her eyes, as she put on a somewhat happy face. "I'm fine, Ethan," she assured, not knowing he could plainly see the lie. "Really, we don't need all this fuss."

Right.

"No fuss?" he said quietly, though he deliberately injected a thin stream of menace in his voice. "Tara, your patient went into cardiac arrest and you were… stuck somewhere in never never land!"

Her face fell, but the wall behind her eyes remained, though they brimmed with ready tears. She opened her mouth to say something, but Ethan interrupted her. "Tara," he said softly. "I was far more worried about you than the girl. You've never been gone that long, or in that deep. You and I need to have a long chat."

He could see her eyes flit about the room, filled with worry and exhaustion. "Not here," she whispered.

"No, not here," Ethan agreed. "After that shot I gave you, you're in no position to drive home. I'll drive you. And we'll talk. Now just give me a few minutes to make some arrangements and I'll take you home. You sit tight."

He got up, and he could feel her eyes on him as he left the room. As he left, he permitted flashes of memory to come forth, and he dwelt on them: on Tara and Mr. Whitney, Tara crying in Willow's room, Tara filled with peace, and then Tara filled with terror. He thought

 _(miraculous recoveries)_

that he was finally going to discover the truth about Tara.

In 24 hours, he would never be the same man again.


	8. Healer at Work

**Chapter Eight**

 **Healer at Work**

Tara sat quietly in the cab of Ethan's truck. He kept stealing glances at her as they drove through the near-darkened streets of Los Osos. She could feel those eyes on her, burning her with questions. The silence between them was dark, uneasy, and she fleetingly wished that everything could have stayed the same. It seemed that Willow, without realising it, would change everything about Tara's life. Tara's soul was conflicted. How much should she tell?

Gods, she was tired. But every time she closed her eyes she could see the burning eyes of the preacher, and she shuddered in the memory. Ethan half-turned to her, and opened his mouth as if to ask something, to shatter the wall of dark silence between them, but it was too thick, too high, and he closed his mouth again. He pulled his truck up to the curb outside her ancient home and shot out like lightning to open the door for her and solicitously take her arm.

"I'm not an invalid, Ethan," Tara said, forcing a laugh at his ministrations. If he kept treating her like she was breakable, she'd have to have words with him. After her visitation with the goddess, she knew she was likely the least breakable thing on earth.

"And I'm not really a gentleman," he stolidly quipped back. "Best way I know of to cop a feel."

Tara laughed out loud as he escorted her to her darkened doorway, and wondered if the neighbours were watching. She pulled out her keys and opened the door, leading the way into her home. Ethan had been here once or twice and gestured as if to open the drapes. She nodded, and the dusky twilight invaded her living room. She flipped the light switch and soft lamps turned on, along with her long strings of white lights, illuminating her eclectic selection of arts and knick knacks. Her home was a place of comfort, and she finally felt herself relax.

Tara motioned Ethan to have a seat on the couch and she bustled into the kitchen. Once again she was starving, but her stomach still heaved and roiled from the filthy touch of the

 _(the long preacher)_

man holding Willow hostage, so she merely put the kettle on for tea. Her mind whirling, she quickly rotated through a dozen different conversations with Ethan, all with varying bits of truth. The kettle started to sing and she still hadn't decided what tactic to use. How would she explain her gifts, her visit with the goddess, her strange imprisonment?

Goddess, guide me.

 _Of course, my blessed child._

Tara whirled around; almost expecting to see the pert form of the child-goddess perched on her counter, so real was her voice. There was nothing there, but a feeling of warm hands encircling her head, and a warm breath caressing her cheek. And it was enough.

Feeling old beyond her years, tired beyond mortality, and rumpled in her scrubs Tara returned to the living room bearing two cups of tea. Ethan rose to accept his and she waved him down again, sitting on the opposite end of the faded paisley couch, tucking her knees under her. She saw him trace a scratch in the upholstery and he said, "You must miss her."

Tara felt a wave of grief pass through her as she looked around her living room, remembering the antics of her darling cat. Misty had been such a playful kitten, and such a devoted cat, one who loved to curl herself around Tara's ankles when she got home from work, and liked to perch on the windowsill beyond the drapes and watch her world as if from a royal throne. Now it seemed as if her very house mourned the kitten's loss. Since then she had thrown herself into her work, spending longer and longer hours at the hospice.

 _(no wonder the rabbit wasn't enough)_

Tara could feel Ethan's eyes on her as they both sipped their too-hot tea. She wondered if she should say something first, before he could ask a question she didn't know how to answer. But she just didn't have the words, and she desperately cast her eyes about the room as if looking for inspiration.

"You've never been gone that long, Tara," she heard him say, and she slowly whirled her head around to look at him. In the last glow of sunlight setting off beyond the ocean she could see his face half-cast in shadow, his eyes filled with concern, and once again she wished, oh she wished she could have Ethan for Donny. "I kept checking and you still didn't come out."

"I know," she answered. Tara stared at her tea, her mind spinning out of control, unknowing what to say, for what would he believe? And would he hate her afterward? What if she could never look him in the eye again?

And the goddess whispered in her ear, and Tara suddenly sat straighter, and looked at Ethan with tender strength in her eyes.

 _(for you, the truth)_

"Ethan, what I have to tell you is something that can never be repeated to anyone. This is in the strictest confidence you can imagine." His head nodded and he smiled, and she lowered her voice and quickly shut down her own smile, looking at him with sad intensity, willing him to understand how serious she was. "Ethan," she whispered. "My life depends on it."

His smile faded.

"Turn off the l-lamp," she quietly ordered, blinking, and he did so, casting the room into long shadows of twilight. She was hideously reminded of the strange netherworld of darkness in Willow's mind and couldn't resist a shiver. And yet he sat, his face filled with concern, and she mourned the loss of his innocence.

Can't be helped. I need him.

Tara closed her eyes and concentrated, muttering two words in Latin. Opening her eyes again she held out her hands with her palms up, and a ball of brilliant light suddenly there appeared, and Tara could see Ethan's face slacken in shock.

"Ethan, I'm a witch."

And the goddess continued to whisper to her.

 _(tell him everything)_

It was well after midnight when Ethan finally left, his eyes glazed over with information overload. They had both shared secrets in the past few hours; Ethan was amazed by Tara's ability to mindsurf, a talent she shared by placing her hands on his head and plucking out a childhood memory of visiting Italy with his grandparents. That was all the proof he needed.

And Tara was similarly amazed by Ethan's account of what had happened in Willow's room. She deciphered that the same time the preacher was blasting portions of Willow's tree was when Willow had her cardiac arrest. And Ethan saved Tara's life, by giving her an injection to make her come out of Willow's mind.

Most astonishing was the flight of the goddess from her locale in Willow's mind. As soon as the goddess left, Willow's hair returned to its normal shade of burnished copper. Tara was happy now that the goddess was free to roam once more, especially as she had kept receiving hints and inspirations from the child on how to deal with Ethan.

And now that Ethan had left, all Tara wanted to do was sleep, but the goddess wouldn't let her.

Too much to do.

For three more hours Tara listened to the promptings of the tiny goddess, opening books, studying passages, and a clearer picture of her most dangerous task began to form. She finally sat with a book open to a section describing the goddess Thespia, who Tara knew to be the guardian/potential jailer of demons. Tara was staring at a picture of an amulet, which Aranaea calmly told her was absolutely necessary for her task.

By this late hour, Tara had abandoned all pretences, and addressed the invisible goddess verbally. "How do I get it?" she asked out loud.

 _(the witch doctor)_

"I can't phone him now, it's the middle of the night."

 _(do it now)_

Tara wearily picked up the phone and opened her address book. Her contact was surprised to hear from her, and even more surprised when she asked to borrow the Amulet of Thespia. "How do you know about it?" he demanded.

"I'm a witch," she painfully reminded him. A grinding headache had settled deep in her fuddled head, and she felt a little dizzy and short-tempered.

"Right. Well, I have some more questions, but now isn't a good time. Come to L.A. tomorrow and I'll have the amulet ready for you."

"Fine." Her contact gave her the address and Tara hung up the phone, fleetingly grateful that tomorrow was Friday and she would have the whole weekend off.

"Now can I go to sleep?" she asked the empty air, a trifle petulantly.

 _(sleep, my daughter, sleep)_

Morning came way too fast for Tara, and as she ruefully made her bed, showered, and ate cold cereal for breakfast she reminded herself to never fall victim to the whims of an invisible child-goddess, no matter how insistent.

When she arrived at the hospice Penny was already there, of course, and Tara compulsively looked at the clock. Two minutes early. She'd never cut it so close before. Penny took one look at Tara's expression and immediately saw past the makeup and the forced cheery appearance. "Long night?" she asked, pouring Tara a cup of coffee.

Tara could hear a note of curious desperation in Penny's voice and she knew that Penny was dying to ask what had happened last night. No one but Ethan knew she was gay, and it was logical to assume that everybody would be wondering just what happened between Ethan and Tara last night. Time to put budding rumours to rest.

"Yeah, Ethan and I talked a bit last night, and then he went home. Then I got caught up in a really good book and stayed up too late." The partial lie flowed too easily from her lips and she just about grimaced in personal dismay.

Tara took the cup of coffee and started to walk down the hallway to Willow's room, when Penny stopped her. "Uh, Tara, a bunch of us girls are ditching our boyfriends to have a poker night tonight. Um, would you like to join us?" Tara could see the multitude of questions behind Penny's eyes and suddenly knew that her earlier lie wouldn't be enough to satisfy her. What would Penny think of her now when she said no?

"I'd really love to, Penny, but I'm going to Los Angeles tonight. S-some other time, for sure."

"Ooh, what's in L.A.?" Penny asked, her eyebrows lifting near off her skull.

Here comes another lie. "Oh, just a friend. Haven't seen him in a while." That much at least was true, and Tara quickly scuttled away before Penny could shower her in more questions and innuendo. She had always been a poor liar, and she absolutely hated telling lies. But when the truth is even more unbelievable, which would you rather believe?

She entered Willow's room and approached the bed with a little trepidation. This little comatose woman had already caused such a welter of emotion in Tara, and she shuddered to think of her task.

 _(the amulet, you need the amulet)_

She was also a little shocked by the red hair, even though she had seen it through bleary, pain-ridden eyes last night. Tara picked up the clipboard at the foot of Willow's bed and stolidly got to work.

Throughout her long, ten hour shift, Tara cleaned Willow's cuts, played music for her, rotated and exercised sore limbs, and smiled every time Willow opened her eyes. She even managed to have a somewhat normal conversation with Ethan as he came into the room to do his own rounds. She was worried that he would treat her differently, but he didn't flinch or ignore her, and she counted her blessings.

By the time late afternoon came, Tara knew she couldn't put her true work off any longer. She had wanted to start working on Willow's broken skull, but when she opened the bandage covering Willow's gut, Tara got concerned. The blade that so nearly eviscerated her must have been dirty, for the edges of the foot-long wound pulsed in infection.

Am I ready for this?

Steeling herself against the inevitable pain, Tara sat down next to Willow's still body and lightly placed her fingertips on the jagged stitched wound. She closed her eyes, and calmed her breathing. This was trickier than mindsurfing. A mindsurf was a one-way flow, as she softly penetrated her patient's minds. Merely taking pain was also a one-way street, as all she did was pull the pain out through her fingertips. And the ritual sacrifice, the death of the animals, there was no other flow there, just liquid death through her fingertips.

Healing was altogether a different matter.

It was taking pain in one direction, and giving energy in the other. So Tara bent to her chore, opened her eyes, and felt the numbness in her fingers as she began to draw out the pain and the infection in Willow's gut wound, feeling it invade her body with dull thuds of pain. Then she closed her eyes again and began to draw out a tiny procession of her own healthy cells, a mini-parade of goodness, and she sent them across the barrier. With her mind held just so, she could almost see the new cells knitting together more perfectly, feeling a measure of their joy as they fulfilled the purpose of their creation.

And she fulfilled the purpose of hers.

 _(for this task have I created you, the greatest healer in the world)_

And suddenly she wasn't merely drawing cells out of her willing body, she was drawing light out of her vessel, and her ears roared with a resounding whoosh of blood. With her eyes closed she could see a raging flood of white god-light surge through her veins, battering down the barrier of her fingers, and surging with enormous strength into the hideous wound of Willow Rosenberg.

And the edges of the wound cleared of infection, and they began to knit together, cells meeting in that joyous celebration of life, unwelcome stitches dissolving away, a long thick red line that turned pinker, and smaller, until it was only a thin pale scar to testify of Tara's sacrifice.

Tara gasped, and wrenched her fingers away.

Even as vast pain engulfed her body, clenching her in waves of terrifying, insistent force, even as she turned and vomited again on the floor, her head lighting up with such exquisite hurt that she felt her eyes would simply burst, she could see, oh she could see the white perfect expanse of skin and the thin white line where a vicious gut wound so recently lived.

 _(Goddess, what have I done? What have you done to me?)_

Once again her mother's training took over. Tara closed her eyes and visualised the pain, compartmentalising it, placing it in little boxes in her mind. But there was too much, far too much to lock away. She shuddered in the leftovers, and it took her fifteen minutes to raise her trembling limbs off the floor. She stood, clutching Willow's bed, willing herself not to faint, her stomach roiling with the stench and the agony. When she recovered enough to move, Tara quietly and resolutely went to the hall closet to get the cleaning supplies. She had to do it herself. She couldn't tell anyone what had happened.

Ethan. She could tell Ethan.

No, he was freaked enough as it is. No use telling him too much, too soon. Wouldn't want him to break.

As she shuffled back into the room, Tara looked at Willow's abdomen once more, drawing her trembling fingers over the clear skin, tracing the miniscule scar, marvelling at the pain that had so swiftly incapacitated her. She sat down on her stool for another few minutes, panting heavily, even her joints aching fit to burst.

Then she finally cleaned up the floor, swaying again and again in nausea and debilitating pain. Gods, she needed an aspirin. Hah, she needed morphine.

She finally sat herself down on the soft brown loveseat and closed her eyes again. Still the pain flowed so deeply within her that she felt crippled by it and her eyes brimmed with tears. Silently she sat there and wept for the body-encompassing agony, and her heart despaired. How on earth was she going to take it all, if this is what happens? Maybe she should ask Ethan for a shot. The longer she sat in the clenched fist of Willow's pain, the bleaker she became, and she suddenly made up her mind.

What started out as a resolute walk to the phone became a limping shuffle, and she swiftly punched in his number and asked him to come to Willow's room. As she hobbled back to Willow's bedside, she thought, "You still there, goddess?"

 _I am here. I will always be with you._

Does it have to be like this?

 _Yes. Oh, yes. I cannot change the aspect of your power._

Then what good are you?

Ethan came bustling into the room, interrupting Tara's silent argument. He could easily see the anguish and pain written all over her beaten form, and he asked, "Tara, what happened?"

His kind voice dissolved her into tears again, so she merely pointed at Willow's abdomen. He seemed puzzled, and then stark astonishment lit up his face as he also traced the thin line. "Wasn't this," and he took a great gulp. "Wasn't this where she had been gutted?"

Tara nodded.

"You did this?"

She nodded again, her eyes blurry. "God, are you all right?" he asked, coming to sit beside her, drawing his arm around her shoulder. She couldn't speak, for a great lump had formed in her throat. Please let him remember.

"Wait, you told me last night that you take the pain." She nodded again, her cheek rubbing against his shoulder, brushing the stethoscope hanging around his neck. "Tara, are you hurt?" No nod this time, for she gulped back a tremendous sob.

It was answer enough.

"Okay, stay here while I get something for you. Don't come out, everyone's too curious about you right now and you can't answer any questions." Ethan gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, propped her up against the couch, and left the room. He quickly returned with a syringe in hand. Drawing up the arm of her scrubs, he swabbed her with disinfectant, and then she felt the welcome pinch and whoosh of drugs.

"Just Toradol," Ethan was saying. "We can't give you a narcotic, not while you're here. Besides, this won't make you fuzzy. You've only got two more hours on shift, so stay here. I'll come back in a while to check on you and Willow both."

As he was leaving the room, Tara looked up at him, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I don't know why you're so good to me," she said quietly, almost hoping he wouldn't hear her. _You may be the first person in my whole life who ever truly cared for me._

But Ethan stopped with his hand on the doorknob. Then he turned to face Tara again and there was a mischievous smile on his face. "Let's say it's in my own best interest," he said facetiously. Then his face sobered and he said, just as quietly as she did, "Besides, there is still one more thing you don't know about me." But then he left without more explanation, and Tara hurt too much to care, logging his eerie comment in the back of her mind for later reflection.

 _See? He won't betray you,_ Tara heard the near-petulant voice of the goddess say.

You're right, she thought back, melting into the brown couch. Thank God for that.

 _You're welcome._


	9. Angels and Demons

**Chapter Nine**

 **Angels and Demons**

As six o'clock arrived and her shift ended, Tara had regained most of her composure, as the Toradol helped blur the edges of the agonising pain. Ethan had wanted to drive her home, but she wouldn't let him; the staff were already too curious about what had been going in on Willow's room lately.

They had no idea. When Monday was over, would she still have a job?

Tara arrived at her home and solemnly walked up the stairs to her room. She would allow herself three hours of sleep before starting her three-hour drive to L.A. She could then meet her contact at midnight in a cemetery, as he had requested. Cemetery, why was it always a cemetery with him?

Sure enough, roughly three hours later Tara was speeding away from Los Osos with a sandwich and a coffee. She couldn't help regretting that she wouldn't be having a poker night with the girls. It was the first time such an invitation had ever been given, and she'd much rather be laughing and gossiping with the girls than meeting her stern and enigmatic witch doctor in a cemetery in the middle of the night. But her task was far too onerous, and she was now realising that it would take every ounce of strength she had to fulfill it.

The pain still lingered, like a deadening force around her back and head. As she drove into the dead of night, headlights from other cars streaking by her incessantly, she began to feel angry. It seemed that all anyone wanted to do was use her. The goddess just wanted to use her to heal Willow, likely killing her in the process. What about Tara, did she have any say in this at all? Couldn't she just live? Could she just turn around and refuse? Sure she could, and then she'd be the instrument of the apocalypse and her entire world would be overrun by evil. Not much choice there.

Even her brother had only wanted to use her, though lately she was confused by his actions. When they were both very young they had played as brother and sister ought, with tree forts and hide and seek and secret passwords. But the magic had welled up in her and Donny grew jealous. Also, his indoctrination under her father had worked obscenely well. She knew that Donny got beat up, too, and tried to hide under beds and behind furniture from the flying fists of her father. It was inevitable that Donny, who had so little power of his own, would find some in controlling and beating on Tara. He had to have some sort of control over his life, even if that control was evil. So, yes, Donny had used her, though he seemed to be trying to make up for it in recent years.

And her father used her, used her in ways

 _(Hush, little Tara, not yet)_

She shook her head. Just another little machine. A tool, to be used up and tossed out in the trash.

So Tara fed on her anger as she drove, and ignored the pleas of the child-goddess who whispered in her ear, trying to turn her from this bleak path. Well, tried to ignore, as she felt the warm hands of the little girl encircle her head, and the child-goddess plucked out the memory of the dream, and force-fed it back to Tara.

 _(that's blackmail)_

Tara remembered feeling Willow's arms go around her so tight, the comforting weight of Willow's head on her shoulder, the ecstasy that Tara felt as the waves of desire crashed over them both, heady and intoxicating. The feeling that Willow was hers, and only hers, and forever hers. And even more astonishing, the absolute truth to the knowledge that Willow loved Tara back, loved her with every breath in her body, every fibre of her being, and would do anything to keep Tara alive. That was what she felt as she held Willow in her arms, and she once again vowed to do anything to keep Willow alive.

Tara shook her head to banish the vision.

You're cheating. That's not real.

 _it could be._

How? She's my patient. If I even made one single advance on her, I'd get fired. Hell, I'd get sued.

 _patience, Tara. It will come right in the end._

And because feeding on the dream was more pleasant than feeding on her anger, Tara chose to calm herself, and imagine what life would be like with Willow in it. No more endless days of work, no more sleeping alone at night, only smiles and laughter and kisses. So the hours passed by, and she found herself in the vibrant city of Los Angeles, a city that didn't seem to care if it was day or night. It was midnight, and yet the streets buzzed with life, little people doing their little things that meant the world to them.

Would her sacrifice be for them as well?

 _Yes, oh yes._

She didn't know L.A. all that well and it took her a while to find the cemetery that her contact requested. She parked outside the gates and gingerly got out, holding her jacket close against a brisk wind. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail, but the wind whipped some tendrils loose and frisked them across her face. The gates to the cemetery had been busted open some time in the past and still hung there, a little bent. It lent a very ominous feel to the whole grave-visiting experience and she shuddered. She fished a flashlight from her pocket and started walking towards the mausoleum in the west end.

The building was softly illuminated by lamplight and when she arrived, she looked around, but could see no sign of her contact. She was about to walk inside when she heard his voice say, "You're late."

Tara spun around and there he was, leaning impassively against a massive headstone, hands in the pockets of a black leather jacket. He had an unearthly air about him, and he lounged with all the contained ferocity of a jungle cat.

"Angel, you startled me."

"I know. Permit me my pleasures, they are few and far between."

He looked sadder than the last time they met, when Tara had finally figured out the truth about

 _hush, little tara_

Tara wondered what was going on in his life. Granted, he always seemed to look sad, perpetual airs of melancholy that he probably didn't even notice himself.

"So what's the emergency?" he asked.

Tara's head was throbbing, and she sat down on the gritty steps of the mausoleum, feeling the cold faux-marble through her jeans. She thrust an inquiring thought out to the goddess, and was pleased to hear a response. Good, she wouldn't be doing this alone. And even though she knew it was highly unethical, and illegal, to talk about her patients, she knew she must. She needed answers. "I want to talk about Sunnydale, the Slayer, and Willow Rosenberg."

The words seemed to hit him like blows to the chest, and he even staggered a little on the headstone. His face, which had been a calm mask of weariness with life, now turned almost savage.

"How do you know these things?" he asked.

"Willow Rosenberg is my patient," Tara said.

"Willow Rosenberg is dead, along with everyone else," Angel replied.

Now Tara was confused. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Willow was alive, but why would Angel think she was dead? "I can assure you, Willow is alive. She was hurt terribly, and spent a week here in an L.A. hospital, and then she was sent to me."

"Who sent her?"

"Some British fellow."

What had been merely a curiosity for her sent Angel into paroxysms of anger. He whirled off his perch and stalked around. "The Council! How dare they? They must have hid her from me. We looked for her!"

Tara could only stare at him, questions flooding her mind. "You know about Willow and Sunnydale?"

"It's a long story," Angel replied. But he succinctly laid it out for her, how he had been Buffy's ally, how Willow and Xander started helping Buffy with the slaying, incorporating themselves into something called the Scooby Gang. She knew he was leaving out a lot, but he covered seven years worth of history before concluding with him giving Buffy an amulet and watching her fight the preacher who was imbued with the ancient power of the First.

"Preacher?" Tara interrupted.

"Yeah, a piece of work named Caleb. One of the meanest and most dangerous foes we've ever faced. Yet Buffy had to take him on alone." His face held a hint of a smile in the memory, yet Tara could see that he was deeply sorrowing Buffy's loss.

Pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place in the landscape of Tara's mind. There was no doubt that this Caleb was the same thing holding Willow's mind hostage. Bemused, she listened as Angel explained the implosion and how he and a few others had come after nightfall to scour the canyon, looking for survivors. They had found none, and Angel's voice grew huskier as he told Tara how he had found the bodies of Buffy, Xander, Dawn, and Giles. But no sign of Willow or Faith. "We went to all the hospitals, and asked about either of them, but they lied to us. If I'd known Willow was alive, I would have…" and he paused, angry.

Tara felt the first pricklings of jealousy bite into her, but she held her tongue. Angel had evidently run out of words, and the pause between them lengthened, until the goddess pricked Tara into telling Angel her entire tale.

Which she did, and she could see the wonder in his eyes as she related Willow being sent to her, the appearance of the Goddess Aranaea, and the shocking revelation of Caleb holding Willow hostage.

"You're sure Willow will live?" Angel asked.

Tara felt another wave of jealousy. This man had parts of her Willow's past, parts of her memory, and Tara felt excluded. "Yes, she will live," Tara replied, rather shortly. Her headache had gotten worse, and the mean little gremlin in her back hooted in glee.

Angel had turned his back to her and wandered the headstones, apparently lost in thought. He finally turned back to face her and she lifted her weary head. "So what part are you supposed to play in all of this?" he asked.

 _(the lamb, I am the lamb)_

She gave him a quirky smile and said, "I'm going to save her." Swiftly she told him of Aranaea's plan for dealing with the preacher and healing Willow. At the end they were both winded and buzzing with thoughts.

"No wonder you need this," Angel said, drawing the amulet out of his leather jacket. He held it out to her and she took it. It had a large circle of amber, with rays sticking out like rays of the sun, and it felt heavier than it should be. She could feel the latent power within and for the first time that night she actually believed she could accomplish her task.

"I should warn you," Angel was saying, and she looked up from her scrutiny of the amulet. His face was deadly serious, and not for the first time she wondered why he was so pale. Must not be the surfer type. "You stay with this group of people too long, you're going to get yourself killed. Everybody else does."

Tara reflected on the pain in his voice, on how he must have felt to pick up Buffy's dead body, how he may have cried over her and cursed the gods.

"You're still alive," she said in a low voice.

"In a manner of speaking," Angel replied, frowning.

Tara had only a moment to contemplate the weirdness of that sentence when she heard a crashing and a bellow. Into the lamp lit circle surrounding the mausoleum, Tara could see three beastly shapes emerge. Their faces were red and horribly misshapen, with long tusks growing out of their jaws, heads and bodies covered in wiry hair. They were wearing long and tattered robes of burlap, and in the glinting light she could see that fresh blood was on their long claws. One of them roared and ran straight towards her.

"Run, Tara!" Angel said, but it wasn't Angel anymore, his own face had shifted into a hideous mask, his eyes turned yellow, and his mouth sported long fangs.

Angel was a vampire.

Even as her mind petulantly said, "He never told me he was a vampire," Tara began to run. But running in a cemetery in the middle of the night when you're being chased by demons doesn't normally lead to fancy footwork, and after a hundred yards Tara stumbled over a low headstone and pitched headfirst into the grass.

Clutching at her hurt ankle and looking behind her, heart burning in fear and exhaustion, she could see that Angel had successfully attacked two of the demons, laying into them with astonishingly hard punches and kicks. But there were three demons, weren't there?

From her side she saw the demon stop and sniff the air, only to roar once again when he saw her. Tara scrambled up and began to run, but there was a massive stitch in her side, her ankle lurched with every step, her head was about to explode in pain, and she wondered, oh she wondered was this to be the end?

The beast lunged for her legs and tackled her, bearing her down to the ground. She turned to face him even as she lay on the ground with his hideous weight on her. Tara lifted her hands to protect her face, but it wasn't fast enough, and his three-clawed hand sped for her cheek. Contact was made and Tara felt three lines of polished smoothness rip from her brow, across to her ear, then down to her mouth before she felt the intense pain. Clapping a hand to her face, valiantly trying to staunch the crimson flood, Tara desperately tried to recall any spell that would send this beast away, but it was too late. Far too late for that.

The beast raised his paw again and slashed her chest, cutting through her jacket and blouse, leaving another three-pronged line of viciousness from her shoulder to her sternum, and her baffled eyes could see her shredded skin flapping in the breeze, inundated in her blood.

And all Tara could do was scream. So she opened her mouth and tried to scream, but it was just like in her nightmares as a child, as her throat closed up and terror overtook her like a speeding train on fire. Her mouth was all bricked up, and she remembered that feeling of helplessness, and could only imagine the jubilation in Caleb's eyes as he watched her die. Even her limbs turned into so much mush and she trembled as she looked into a face brimming with madness and death.

Their eyes locked, and in the beast's eyes Tara could see herself, a reflection of her ripped and bloodied cheek, and she prayed that this would not be the last thing she would ever see.

The demon was raising his hands and in a startling moment of clarity, Tara realised he was about to take her head in his huge paws, then he would twist it in a single deathly motion, and her neck bones would break, and her windpipe would be crushed, and she would be dead. Demon fodder.

Hopeless.

So she raised her arms as if she could possibly fight him, and put her fingers on his hideous face. The moment her trembling fingers contacted his skin she could feel a pulse throughout her body. A cascading flood of oily blackness seemed to shudder from her fingers, hammering into the face of the demon with catastrophic force. She could feel that flood rising up inside her, and in the reflection of the demon's eyes she watched, horrified, as her own eyes turned completely black.

Gods, no. I am not like the preacher. Stop this!

But she was powerless to stop, and felt a heady sensation of bloodlust and raw excitement that sickened her to the bone. And the flood continued, and as the pain swiftly left her body, Willow's gut wound, her headache and backache, she could see the skin under her fingers blister and blacken, and the demon howled in agony. She barely knew what she was doing; it was some abominable act, not the gentle murder of animals but a deliberate slaughter. She felt horrified and sickened, and burst into tears even as she kept up the nauseating flow of darkness, watching the demon's eyes as they burst, showering her in bits of goo, watching as the demon's hair caught ablaze.

With a mighty shove she pushed the demon off of her, stumbling away to miserably observe the demon's death throes, as the fire from his hair caught on his tattered robe until he was entirely ablaze. A sickening stench arose, a charnel smell, a death reek, a demon barbecue, and for the second time that day she retched up her dinner.

As the pulsing force of adrenaline slowly faded throughout her body Tara could feel the exquisite pain of her wounds, but it was an almost welcome pain, a surface pain, not the bone-deep agony she had felt only this afternoon in Willow's room. She clapped her hands to her chest, feeling a white blanket of unconsciousness threaten to overtake her. She looked at the demon and tried to reconcile herself, telling herself that it was better to off a demon than to take a rabbit. And it worked the same way, or seemed to.

No use. She had never used her power as a weapon before, and she felt defiled. And though she had nothing in her stomach to lose, she dry-heaved on her hands and knees for long minutes, the sickening smell in her nostrils and endless agony in her heart, stars dancing on the edge of her vision.

She heard running footsteps and knew it was Angel. She lifted her head, dimly noticing that her brown hair was streaked with her own blood, long tendrils of it stuck in her cheek and brushing against her shoulder. "How?" he stammered, looking at the smoking corpse of the demon, and she could see a bruise lifted on his normal again cheek, and he walked with a limp. "How did you do this?"

Tara fainted.


	10. Donny's Secret

Chapter Ten

Donny's Secret

Tara Maclay, RN, prophet-dreamer, truth seeker, and demon killer awoke to a whitewashed slat of morning sunshine directly over her eyes. The sun confused her for a moment – she was diligent about drawing the heavy drapes in her bedroom before slipping off to bed. She blinked several times; the glow wasn't quite powerful enough to sting her eyes, but it was enough to wake her from a slender and painful sleep. It took only this slim moment for her to recognise the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the faint tang of industrial laundry detergent right under her nose, and the slightly hissing sound emanating from the bank of dials and machines surrounding the bed. She slowly lifted her chocolate brown head and looked about her in shock.

Where was she?

She was lying in a narrow hospital bed, her left hand stabbed with an IV needle, and she was covered with a light blue blanket. Her face throbbed with her every heartbeat, so she lifted her right hand to touch her cheek. Her shaky fingers traced three wicked lines that weren't deep enough for sutures, so they were being held together with white tape. She tried to sit up, but was violently clenched with a sword of pain through her chest and she sat back, wheezing. She looked down and carefully peeled the blanket away from her chest, then lifted her robe to have a peek.

Tara's entire chest was covered with a bandage already pink with blood, and she gulped, dizzying fainting stars blooming on the edge of her vision. Near frantic, Tara looked for the nurse call button, and depressed it as soon as she found it.

It took only a moment for an apple-cheeked matronly woman to bustle past the curtain separating her from the others in her room. "Goodness, Tara, we didn't expect you to be up so soon," the woman clucked. Tara looked at the woman (Helen, by her name tag) and weakly asked, "What am I doing here?"

The nurse was already taking Tara's blood pressure and slipped the monitor over her finger to take her temperature. "We were hoping you could tell us," Helen said. "The police want to file a report, we're to call them when you feel up to it."

Helen had very dark brown eyes, and as soon as Tara looked at them she felt her face whiten. She remembered. She remembered looking into the maddened eyes of the demon, and seeing her own reflection, her own black and hate-filled eyes staring back. Tara was just about to ask the nurse what colour her eyes were when she stopped herself. That was a question you asked only if you wanted a one-way ticket into the psych ward.

"Police report?" Tara managed to ask.

"Well, yes," Helen said, the blood pressure cuff finally exhaling on her arm and the nurse calmly ripped it away. "The young man that brought you in early this morning said he found you like that in the park. Said you'd been attacked, and he managed to scare some of them off. Though what you were doing in a park that late at night, I just don't know," the nurse added in a blank tone of disapproval.

Tara looked around the room and saw her purse sitting on the shelf next to her. Helen followed her eyes, and said, "We found your contact information in your purse and we phoned your father. I think they said your brother was going to try and see you."

Tara grimaced and closed her eyes, wondering if Donny would really come. Her home was on the other side of San Francisco, which meant it was a nearly seven-hour drive to Los Angeles. Would he come, or would it be her father? Hoping against hope that it would be indeed Donny coming and not her father, she managed a small smile, but her face creased with too much pain. Helen noticed and said, "The doctor has approved you for painkillers. Would you like something for the pain?" With her eyes still closed, Tara nodded. "Are you allergic to any painkillers?" Tara shook her head.

Helen left and returned in a few more minutes with a syringe that she pushed into the port on Tara's IV. "Just some Demerol and Gravol, dear," the nurse said as the drugs liquefied her consciousness and she tossed herself into a narcotic sleep.

When she groggily opened her eyes again it was late Saturday afternoon. She looked around her room but couldn't see much owing to the curtain drawn around her bed. Now she could hear the bustling sounds of the hospital and thin shreds of conversation from the people around her. She found the call button and pressed it again, not trying to get up.

It was a different nurse this time, a short and stocky fellow named Daniel. "'Bout time," he said with a smile. Again the inevitable blood pressure cuff came on her arm and the monitor on her finger. "And how are we feeling?"

Tara's tongue felt thick with sleep and the narcotic drug and she answered, "I'm all right. When can I go home?"

Daniel pierced her with a glare. "Do you even know how hurt you are?" he asked, starting the blood pressure machine. She felt the uncomfortable pinch of her upper arm as the cuff bit into her. She shook her head. The nurse seemed about to start a massive recitation _(ah the poetry of wounds)_ when there was a knock on the door and she could hear the familiar voice of her older brother say, too loudly, "Is there a Tara Maclay here?"

Daniel strode to the curtain and pulled it aside, letting in Tara's brother. He already looked angry, and Tara wished the good nurse would just knock her out again and spare her the lecture. Donny stood in stoic silence while the nurse finished scribbling down Tara's vitals, and only spoke once Daniel had left.

"So. Here I am. To rescue you like usual," Donny said, pulling up a cheap plastic chair and sitting next to her. "What were you thinking? Why are you in LA?"

Tara closed her eyes. Between the incessant throbbing of her slashed skin and the hurtful words of her brother she felt like sobbing. Couldn't he just once be nice to her? Just once?

"I mean, it would sure be nice to pick up the phone and hear something other than, 'Oh, Tara needs an animal,' or 'Oh, Tara needs to stay at work', or how about, 'Oh, Tara has been knifed in the chest in the middle of the night in LA'." His voice was thick with derision, but he kept it low, not wanting to alert the three other patients in their large hospital room.

Tara couldn't help it now. She began to weep, and she felt her tears slide down her face to sting the three slashed grooves in her ravaged cheek. It was true. He was always rescuing her. Couldn't she ever just grow up? Her silent tears threatened to turn into sobs and she desperately held them at bay, knowing what exquisite pain would knife her chest if she allowed herself to bawl. "Please, Donny," she whispered, not even knowing what she was really pleading for. Forgiveness, maybe. For him to stop hurting her, surely.

She heard him sigh, then the chair creaked and she opened her eyes a slit. He was leaning back, taking out a toothpick and putting it in his mouth to gum to death. "I mean, Tara, it has only been a few days since I saw you last," Donny continued. "So what happened?"

Tara opened and closed her mouth, not sure of what to say. And Donny saw it. "Want to lie to me?" he asked viciously. "Honestly, Tara, how am I supposed to love you when you act like this?"

What did he just say?

Tara blinked her eyes slowly, adjusting her teary focus. Donny pulled his chair close to her bed, the toothpick splintered in his mouth. "I don't know why you have the magic," he continued in a low voice. "You are so weak. All someone has to do is bat their eyes at you and you'd die for them. If I had your power, I'd…" and he trailed off, trying to regain his temper. Tara could only stare at him in amazement.

"In all your running around to save the world, have you ever discovered how to save yourself?" he asked her, threading his voice with black menace and stabbing her with it. "You're a healer, why don't you heal yourself?"

Tara closed her eyes again, his words crashing in on her like physical blows, and more tears seeped from her eyes. Oh, why did he come? She cleared her throat and opened her eyes again. "You know I can't heal myself, Donny. It doesn't work that way."

A momentary flicker of triumph passed over Donny's face and he actually laughed at her. Laughed! A red-hot sheet of anger passed through her, and she let it show on her face. She opened her mouth to say something, but Donny over-rode her, and she allowed herself a momentary sigh of frustration. Seemed that everyone was interrupting her these days.

Donny had masticated his toothpick into a pulp, and he spit it into the small garbage pail by her hospital bed. It was nowhere near dark outside, but Tara still wished that visiting hours would close soon, so he would just leave her alone. The narcotics had almost entirely worn off and she could feel nausea under the intense pain. She needed another shot, and soon.

"I guess it's time for me to give you a magic lesson," Donny was saying. Tara looked at him in surprise. Donny's face had softened immeasurably, and for the first time in many years Tara thought that he could actually be handsome. "Mom died before you were ready for the last two lessons. She gave me instructions to teach them to you at the right time. Guess that time is now."

"Mom gave you magic lessons?" Tara breathed.

"My secret is out," Donny chuckled, and Tara could just sense his elation that he knew something about the magic that she didn't. "Are you ready, sis?"

"Yes."

"You need to be sitting up more," Donny said, moving to the foot of her bed. "Brace yourself, I'm going to crank you up a bit." Not really waiting for a response, he cranked the foot of the bed, slowly, and she rose up to a half-reclining position with a resulting screech from her wounded chest and she grit her teeth.

He returned to his seat next to her, took a deep breath, and started to speak. "Mom knew that there would come a time when you would injure yourself physically. Not by taking the pain of others, but a hurt you acquired all on your own. She told me to wait until at least five years after she died, and to wait until you were really badly hurt, too. When I asked her why I had to wait, she said that you weren't emotionally prepared yet for the lesson. But I guess it's cuz you're just plain stupid. Honestly, I really thought you'd figure it out by now. It's not even that hard. I guess you've never had occasion to use it, though."

Tara frowned at him. "No reason to get all snippy," she said.

He shuffled close to the bed and said, "Take my hands." She softly took them, and felt the hard calluses on his palms. "Close your eyes." She closed them, panting a little because of the pain. "Now extend your awareness into my body, but stay close enough to hear my voice." Tara did as he asked, and in the darkness of her mind she extended a tendril of thought through his hands and into his body and waited there. "Next part is simple. It's healing, just backwards. Take my cells into your body and use them to knit your wounds together."

"That's it?" she asked, frowning at herself for not picking up on it. Stupid, stupid, stupid Tara!

"Yes, but it has to be your own pain, not someone else's. That's the point."

Tara thought back to yesterday and the overwhelming pain she felt as she healed Willow's wound, and then the pain of the demon attack and she felt weary. She had been in so much pain lately, glutted with it, clotted with it, and all because of Willow. She thought back to her dream and how she had so eagerly fed on the purple stain of the goddess. Gods, she was naïve. Why was she sacrificing herself like this? For love? Willow was in a coma. Besides, who even knew if Willow was gay? It would be just like her to throw her heart and soul into healing a woman who would just leave her in the end.

And the taste in her mouth was bitter, bitter.

No use crying over spilled milk, Tara. What's done is done. Besides,

 _not even the poet knows the end from the beginning_

where there is love, there is always hope. And I think I love her. So I'll do whatever it takes, even using Donny like this. Tara grasped his hands a little tighter, and the tiny part of Tara that was still awake and mindful heard Donny gulp.

"What is it?" she asked, her eyes still closed.

"What if you take too much?" he asked quietly, and she could actually feel his fear through his fingers. She almost asked if mom had ever used him like this, but she didn't, fearful of the answer.

"I won't. I promise. Besides, you can pull your hands away anytime and it will sever the connection."

Gladly and rejoicing, Tara sunk into Donny's body, his healthy farmer's body, and lined up a procession of cells. She eagerly pulled them across the barrier of skin and sent them flying to her chest. Long minutes passed as she continued to pull, and she could feel new flesh growing, as the horrific flaps of demon-shredded skin began to knit together.

"Tara," Donny choked, trying to pull his hands away.

But she felt exhilaration, and power

 _(you are the Kraken)_

and she pulled and pulled and pulled, her pain dissolving into nothingness, wonderful streams of strength and vitality, and she felt buzzed, just like after taking an animal.

Wait.

This was no animal. This was Donny.

She wrenched herself away and Donny collapsed on the floor, shivering. "Donny, I…" Tara stammered, sitting up in her bed and putting a hand to her chest. She touched herself tenderly, then with more force. She lifted the top of her robe and peeled away the tape that held the bandage to her.

The three terrible gashes had shrunk to three shallow cuts, much like the ones in her face, and she bitterly reflected that if she had hung on longer she might have healed them entirely.

But then she might have killed her brother in the process, and she whirled to look at him, deep concern written plainly on her face. Tara wanted to apologise, to say, 'You didn't tell me,' but it was probably far too late for that.

"You bitch," Donny snarled, wheezing on the floor. "You just use me. That's all you ever do."

"No, Donny, I – I'm sorry," Tara said, and suddenly her heart was breaking. He was right again. All she ever did was use him, and keep him out of her life, and for what? She wasn't a child anymore. Couldn't she find enough compassion to forgive him?

Donny lurched to his feet, clutching at his side, his face white with fury and pain. "Get your own gorram animals, Tara. We're through." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope, throwing it at her face. She put up her non-IV'd right hand just in time to intercept the white bullet and looked at the writing. It was her mother's.

What?

"Donny, please," Tara gasped, her voice breaking, reaching out an arm to stop him, to tell him she was sorry and more than sorry, and that she would do anything to make up for what she had just done. Her questing fingers found the edge of his jacket as he turned to leave and she pulled.

Oh no.

Donny hadn't hit her in years, and her reflexes had dulled in the passage of time. His balled-up fist streaked unerringly for her face and she did nothing to stop it. With a resounding crack and a bloom of pain, Donny punched her in the eye, the same eye nearly ripped off by the demon's claw.

"Hey, what's going on in there?" she heard a tremulous voice say from somewhere beyond the curtain. Tara put her hands up to her face and cried, so she didn't have to see the precipitous departure of her only brother, the brother she had just used, as horribly as he had ever used her. Amidst the agony of her face she could remember the horrifying tableau in the cemetery, as she saw her reflection in the demon's eyes, her own eyes deadened and blackened and rotting in evil.

Gods, what is happening to me?

Is Willow truly worth all this?


	11. Resistance

Chapter Eleven

Resistance

It was late. The hospital room was dark and Tara felt confined behind the drawn white curtain. She could hear the sounds of the three other patients in her room, could hear their breathing, tossing, and muttering in their sleep. The quiet maddened her. Tara's thoughts were torturous; her mother's letter was folded again and placed in her purse.

A great rage was rising within her, and even her purse, usually the most comforting of possessions, became a thing reviled. Within it laid the instruments of her death: her mother's letter, the amulet of Thespia, and a note from Angel. Snatches of words came back to her in a dizzying flood; she felt as if she were drowning in her fate and no one cared to throw her a life preserver.

From Angel's note, "Remember, if your eyes turn black, you'll have to be killed."

From her mother's letter, "I allowed it all, I allowed your father to belittle you and your brother to hit you and for you to be picked on in school."

From Aranaea, "My dearest and most precious child, this time you will be the rabbit, you are my sacrifice to save the world. You are the lamb."

Hateful memories filled her, and she desperately cast back on the moments of her life, seeking for any to lift her from this black despair. Any moment of peace, of happiness, of comfort, just one to quiet the din of depression, the little gremlins of memory that would swarm over her and consume her. But in the dark of the Saturday night, in the hospital room that somehow seemed to sum up her entire blighted existence, and in the torturous memories of those who were supposed to support her, she could only recall the dark.

From Donny, "You're just hoping to rack up the blood debt, and that someday you'll be called to pay up."

From her mother's letter, "But I was called upon to make my own sacrifice for this unknown person you need to heal, and I will give my life for it, and for you, and for this act you must accomplish in order to save the world."

From Angel's note, "Let me know when Willow is conscious. I want to see her."

From Aranaea, "There was so much more to tell you, why I did what I did to you and your family, but I'm afraid there is no more time."

Only then did another, sweeter memory threaten to cascade over her, showering her in just a hint of the miraculous as Tara remembered crying in Willow's room that first day, the feeling of a new focus, a new

 _(Willow-light)_

sun, a new reason for being that made utter and complete sense at the time. At that moment she had been fulfilled, she had purpose, she had faith.

But the memory was too sweet, and Tara balked, and walled it up and enclosed it in her fury. Tearing up inside, she took a handful of hospital sheet and gripped it tightly, the silence in the room as menacing as any demon. Her skin felt hot and prickly, and a scream echoed behind her lips, just waiting for her resolve to crumble. She couldn't be here, not one moment longer.

Tara looked around her. What else was keeping her here? After Donny left so precipitously the police had come and taken her disjointed account of her attack, and she knew that not a word made sense, but the detectives seemed so uninterested that she simply didn't care. More vitals had been taken; a shot of painkiller had been offered but declined. No doctor had come to wow over her healing, no nurse had offered more than the thinnest sympathy in their haste to do their job and move on, and no friend had appeared in the doorway to comfort her. She was on her own.

She was out of here.

Tara looked at her left hand, the one pierced with the IV needle. It may be a ball and chain to the other inmates in her room, a way to make sure they couldn't leave, but she was a nurse. She knew exactly what to do. Tara carefully peeled away the tape and smoothly slid the needle out, clapping the small bead of blood with some Kleenex. She shuffled out of her bed and put her pants on. Unfortunately, both her shirt and jacket had been shredded in the demon attack and were not returned to her. Thank goodness she had an overnight bag with clothes in her car, which Angel's note said he parked in the 'C' block of the parking lot.

She wrapped her hospital robe and thin housecoat tightly around her, blotted the back of her hand once again, and took up her purse. Sidling around the white curtain Tara then hovered in the doorway of her hospital room, looking down the darkened hallway. It wasn't quite midnight yet, and the nurse at the station was busy going through file folders.

No use fooling around, getting caught.

 _(You are the Kraken)_

Tara took a moment and concentrated, then cast a shifting glamour on herself. Holding a sense of fierce modesty in her mind, confident in her near-invisibility, Tara headed down the hall towards the exit. The nurse looked up once as she walked by, but Tara's spell had the nurse disinterested immediately, and Tara was ignored. Tara grimly smiled as she headed down the stairs. Pure invisibility was rare, but this magic was centered more in making the caster seem unremarkable, and ordinary, and quickly forgotten.

Imbued with anger and revelling in the feeling of it, Tara released her spell, found her car and took off, away from the hospital and all the hell it represented. She stopped long enough down a dark street to change out of her hospital robes, pulling on a T-shirt and a jacket. As she resumed her drive through Los Angeles and towards home she cycled through radio stations, hoping to find one to fuel her rage, and stopped on a heavy metal station. Driving recklessly, almost savagely, she soon found herself on the highway home.

Instead of trying to exile the terrible moments of her past, Tara now fed on them. She should have been exhausted, weary from pain and drug use, but the rage fuelled her, sustained her. Dragging herself through a miry pit of despair, Tara cast herself through the hundreds of slights, hurts, and pains inflicted upon her throughout the course of her life. A void began to grow inside her; an empty kind of hollow that invaded even as the music grated and Tara drove ever close to home.

And Willow.

No. No Willow. No more.

This gorging on past fear and terror was a dreaded path that could lead only to oblivion, yet Tara eagerly rushed down it. As headlights streamed past her, music thudded into her barely healed chest, and her fury boiled into a sort of distilled cunning, a hatred that flickered through her memories, casting them all in dark shadows. Ever Tara's mind whirled, and ever she remembered, even as the long hours passed.

From Aranaea, "I kept her alive, but it is up to you to save her."

From her mother's letter, "I will allow every horror, every calamity, every catastrophe that this wicked world has to offer, I will allow them to fall upon you, and hurt you, and curse you."

From Donny, "Do you honestly hate us that much?"

From dream-Willow, "Can you save me?"

And from dream-Anna, "For the love of this woman, you will surely die."

ENOUGH!

Tara suddenly and viciously turned off the main highway, turning onto a dirt track that led past some farms and to the ocean. Burning, seething, writhing, Tara parked her car next to a cluttered beach and got out.

She felt as if she were about to explode. Tara clutched at her middle even as she stumbled onto the rock-strewn beach; the intense moonlight illuminating every pebble, casting shadows. The ocean was remarkably calm, and a light wind softly brushed Tara's hair. The calmness, like the silence in the hospital room, was too much for Tara; gritting her teeth in fury she picked up a rock and heaved it into the ocean, crying out as she felt the intense pull of muscles across her newly healed flesh. Instead of stopping, she threw again and again, yelling and rejoicing in the fiery burn of pain. It meant, for a little while longer, at least, that she was alive.

"You hear me?" Tara screamed. "I'm still alive!"

She threw another rock into the vast inky blackness of the ocean, lost her balance, and fell heavily to the ground. To her vast dismay, she found that she was sobbing.

This is all Willow's fault, she thought.

"No, it's mine," Tara heard. She turned her head and saw the tiny shape of the child-goddess sitting on a rock next to her. The goddess still had her daisy crown, and grass stains on her feet, and Tara felt a wildness rage up inside her.

"I won't do it," Tara vowed, and her low voice was etched in fury. "Get someone else to be your rabbit, your lamb. You and I are done."

"No one else has the power you do," Aranaea softly replied. If the softness was meant to placate Tara, it had the opposite effect. The hungry void inside Tara yowled in rage, and her ears rang as the goddess continued, "There is no one else."

"Then I guess she dies," Tara replied heartlessly. Or she hoped heartlessly, but even as she said the words she could feel her heart yearn for Willow, for the imagined feel of her, for the possibility of a life together. No, don't think of Willow.

 _be hard, Tara, be hard!_

"It is true that Caleb, the preacher, holds Willow hostage in her mind," the diminutive goddess said. "But it is also true that Willow holds Caleb hostage as well. As long as she lives, he is imprisoned. The minute she dies, he is free. Just imagine what he could do," and the hateful goddess just wouldn't stop there, she forced an image upon Tara so rank, so evil, that Tara literally choked on it. There weren't words for the devastation she showed Tara then, for the blood and bile, for the fear and frustration, for the absolute cheapness of human life and the depths of depravity suffered by all.

And ever more clouds of hatred scudded through Tara's mind, igniting electric storms of madness, and for a moment Tara stood upon the very mouth of hell. Thunder roared within her and an abiding hatred for the goddess arose.

Maybe realising she had just made a major mistake, the goddess said, "This is it, Tara. This is the encounter we've been preparing you for your entire life. This is why your mother died."

Tara interrupted. "Don't you dare mention her. You both betrayed me long ago. How can I ever trust either of you again?" To her astonishment and dismay, Tara found herself crying softly. "How could both of you do this to me? She let my father…"

 _(hush, little Tara)_

Aranaea quickly interrupted. "No, she didn't. She never found out what he did."

Tara heard what Aranaea didn't say and shot back, "Maybe she didn't, but you did."

"I only did what I had to. With every moment you suffered through life, your potential for godly power grew. I needed you to be the most powerful healer, so I did what I did, and I'm not ashamed. But see, healing Willow, this will make sense of it all. But it is still your choice."

The words fell on deadened ears. "My choice?" Tara barked, her voice harsh. "How is this a choice? Die if I save her, the world dies if I don't? Answer me this, goddess, if I save Willow, will I die?"

"Yes," Aranaea replied, unhesitating.

Tara got up from her stony perch and faced the ocean. "What if I want to live?" Tara screamed. "What if I want to love, and be loved, and have babies? Are my dreams so expendable? Am I supposed to just give this all up, for this girl I don't even know?"

And Aranaea, determined to save Willow at any cost, determined to make Tara choose the right way, delivered her most fatal mistake of all. With a single wave of her hand, the goddess opened a window and showed Tara a vision of indescribable loveliness.

Tara was lying on her side on fresh-mown grass, sunshine filtering softly through green leaves. Soft sounds of laughter, of children playing next door, delicately intruded her little dome of sunshiny delight. She could smell the sharp tang of tomato plants, the soft musk of decaying plant matter, the sandalwood and rose of Willow's hair. She ran her fingers through that gorgeously alluring red hair, smiling at the rising blush in Willow's cheeks.

Willow was lying on her back along Tara's body. Her face was turned invitingly towards Tara, her dimples deep in barely restrained joy. As Tara's one hand gently caressed Willow's hair, her other hand was entwined with one of Willow's, and lay soothingly on Willow's baby-distended belly. As Tara looked into Willow's eyes she saw only the deepest contentment, a love so strong and whole that it turned her insides a-flutter.

And then Willow smiled, a low playful smile, and said, "Come here."

Pulling on Tara's entwined hand, Willow drew Tara over her like a blanket. Their lips met, and Willow pushed against her with familiar insistence, her tongue flicking against Tara's mouth, demanding entry, and Tara more than gladly granted it, feeling her whole soul melt in the abiding sunshine of Willow's love. There on the grass under the tree in their backyard, as Tara heard the bees buzzing around the flowers she had planted, as she smelled the intoxicating aroma of cut grass, as she felt their baby kick underneath her, Tara knew she had found heaven.

"STOP!" Tara screamed at the goddess, sharp moonlight illuminating the tears streaming down her cheeks. "How dare you? Stop tricking me! Stop teasing me! None of that is real!"

"It could be," Aranaea replied, shame flushing her cheeks.

"How?" Tara demanded. "I'm dead, remember?"

Turning her back on the goddess, Tara made her way up the rocky strand to her Honda. Holding her icy hatred of the goddess as protection against the overwhelming sorrow that battered against her, Tara smartly drove away, looking back once in the rear-view mirror only to see a deserted beach drenched in moonlight. The goddess was gone.

By the time Tara arrived in Los Osos at five in the morning she was near catatonic with exhaustion and pain. Surprisingly, her hands on the steering wheel did not turn her down the streets to her house, but took her unerringly to the slumbering form of the hospice halfway up the mountain. Tara parked in the lot and used a little of her remaining strength to cast the glamour again. The last thing she needed was to explain her face, her battle wounds.

She unlocked the doors and slipped into the hospice. Following the familiar trail, she found herself in the West Wing and directed her lumbering feet to Willow's room. John was working the nurse's station, and looked up as she approached, but merely returned to his endless tasks as she walked on.

It was an almost outside force that pulled her into Willow's room, and Tara succumbed to it. Mindless now, her every reserve spent in rage, hatred, and now exhaustion, Tara pulled a chair close to Willow's bed and sat down. Her hands trembling, she grasped one of Willow's hands in both of hers, then bowed her head over their conjoined hands and started to cry.

There was no passion behind her tears, no forceful ejection of feeling. There was only weariness. Despite everything that had ever happened to Tara, as she sat there in Willow's room and sobbed, she began to realize that this was the lowest point of her life. She'd never been so alone before, or so bereft of hope. Even in her worst moments, the ones so dark she could never bring them to the forefront of her memory, she at least could have hope of a better life. She could imagine a happier time and place, imagine hugs and puppies, and love and kisses. But now there was nothing left, no future to speak of, and only the prospect of unimaginable pain between now and the end.

And there, in the moonlit expanse of Willow's room, surrounded by inevitable torture and death, Tara began to feel peace. And at first she railed against it, wanting the rage to fuel her again, wanting the void to swallow her, and devour her, and spit up her bones on an uncaring landscape. But the peace kept radiating forth, a slow blaze and Tara finally lifted her head from Willow's lap, tears stinging the furrows in her cheek.

It was Willow.

The day Tara met Willow and stood here, feeling a new sun rise within her, her soul had been drawn to Aranaea, and to the white god-light that had poured from her through Willow's body. But now Aranaea was gone, yet Willow continued to shine. Her breath catching in her throat, Tara clutched at Willow's hand, and still the slow flush of peace and hope continued to invade her body, melting her defences. There was no god-light, only

 _(Willow-light)_

the shining aura of Willow's own indomitable spirit. A portion of that spirit reached out to Tara, and seemingly encircled her body, lent her breath and strength and courage to go on.

"Willow, will you save me?" Tara choked into the darkness.

Her last ounce of resistance faded as the first lightening rays of the sun entered the room. Willow continued to pulse with radiance, not distant like the gods, but earthly, womanly, and Tara basked in it, letting it dissolve the hideousness of the past two days they'd been apart.

"I'll do it," Tara whispered aloud. Tara stroked Willow's cheek, and caressed her hair, and before she could convince herself not to, she swiftly kissed Willow's chapped lips. "I've got work to do," Tara told the sleeping woman. "Hang in there. I'm coming to take care of the preacher for you."

Checking her glamour, Tara crept out of the hospice and slowly motored home. Just as dawn was breaking over the mountains Tara entered her house, marvelling at all that had occurred since she left. Her meeting with Angel, her encounter with the demon, Donny's secret, and her fight with the goddess; it seemed time had drawn out far beyond a mere 36 hours.

Tara automatically checked her answering machine, and heard Ethan's voice. "Tara, it's Ethan. Look, you didn't say how long you'd be in LA, but it's Saturday afternoon and I thought you'd be home. Call me." There was a beep, and then she heard his voice again. "Tara, it's me. I'm worried. It's ten on Saturday night, and you haven't called. Call me no matter what time you get in." Yet another beep, and his voice flooded the room. "Tara, where are you? Are you all right? Call me!"

Tara managed a small smile through blinding sheets of pain and exhaustion. It was six in the morning on Sunday, he'd be sound asleep, but she called him anyway. Reassuring him that she was all right, she told him that she needed to sleep all day, then asked if he would come over that night. "I know how to save Willow," she told him. "But I need your help. I have a big favour to ask you, Ethan," she warned before hanging up the phone.

Staring at the phone after it had gone dead, Tara recalled Angel's warning. "I may need you to kill me," she whispered.


	12. The Confessions of Dr Daniels

**Chapter Twelve**

 **The Confessions of Dr. Daniels**

Tara flushed the toilet and then washed her hands thoroughly in the sink. As she washed, she stared at her reflection. No amount of concealer or foundation could erase the hideous black eye and the three furrows down her cheek, so she didn't bother trying. At the staff meeting this morning her appearance was met with general outcry and she had to embellish the story of her attack in a non-demon fashion. Ethan dealt with some other hospice matters, but the meat of the staff meeting was to honour the request Tara made of him last night. For reasons Ethan and Tara couldn't really explain to the other nursing staff, Willow's room would be off-limits to everyone today, and no amount of emergency would be tolerated to open the door to her room. Ethan explained that Tara had just been authorized to carry out a very controversial and experimental coma treatment on her patient. He also explained that he had to be in the room the entire time to monitor the treatment.

Tara couldn't help but smile throughout his explanation. It was so close to the truth, yet so far. If any of them knew that they were going to perform magic in order to bring Willow out of her coma… Well, it was a subterfuge, and it had better work.

Tara carefully picked up the large duffel bag that she hadn't allowed to leave her sight since arriving at work this Monday morning, wincing as muscles pulled in her chest. She walked into Willow's room, noticing that Ethan was already there with the equipment she had requested. Closing the door firmly behind her she walked into the room and shut the blinds, but then drew back the white curtain so the whole room was open. They would need a lot of space for this spell to work.

"Are you nervous?" she asked Ethan as she set down her duffle bag. He was preparing an IV hep lock for Tara, and his face was pale.

"Let's see, am I nervous? I'm about to participate in a magic spell, which magic apparently does exist and not in a Harry Potter kind of way, and I'm also being asked to kill you if something goes wrong. So yes, I'm a little nervous," he replied, fussing his short brown hair and compulsively straightening the items on the tray.

Tara went right over to him and took his shaking hand. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Thank you, Ethan," she said softly.

"Tara, there's something I need to tell you," he said urgently, opening his eyes and taking her hands in his. She saw something in his eyes, a tiny bit of her father, and she suppressed a shiver.

"Wh-what is it?" she stammered, her heart pounding in her chest.

Ethan lifted one of his trembling hands and touched her hair, then ran his fingers down the length of it. His other hand continued to tremble in hers, and she grew a little afraid. With the same hand he used to caress her hair he lifted her chin and said, "I'm in love with you, Tara."

Oh, no.

Tara closed her eyes in sorrow. "I know I shouldn't," he continued, his voice a little wild. "You don't know how I've tried to stop, knowing what I know about you." As he pulled his hands away from her, she opened her eyes again to follow his manic pacing across the floor. "I'm in love with you, you're in love with her," and his wildly gesticulating hand pointed at Willow, "and who knows, maybe she's in love with me. She is straight, after all."

Tara's heart stopped. "What did you say?" she whispered. Her mind was numb, as even her last remaining link to Willow was severed. As her last daydream faded from her mind, a single tear trickled down her cheek. So. The goddess had lied after all. Lied in every way possible. She should have known there would be no hope of a future with Willow, no space between Willow's healing and Willow killing her. After all, she was Willow's nurse. Unethical, Tara, unethical. And now impossible.

No.

"How do you know this?" she asked wildly.

Ethan caught the note of helplessness in her voice and returned to clutch at her hands again. "We got so busy talking last night about the spell and what I had to do to help you, I forgot to tell you I heard from her family."

"What?" she stammered. "Tell me!"

Ethan guided her to the low brown couch and they both sat. In the extremes of her grief, Tara allowed Ethan to sit next to her, and put his arm about her shoulders, and his hand on her knee. With his finger he traced the pattern of the yummy sushi on her scrubs. She looked up at his kind, gentle face and wondered why he loved her. He really was adorable, with long eyelashes and playful brown hair; he could have any woman in the state fall for him. Why, oh why would he choose her?

"It was Saturday morning," Ethan was explaining. "I got an emergency call transferred to my cell phone, and when I answered it was a near hysterical woman. She explained that her name was Sheila Rosenberg, and that she was looking for her daughter. I immediately reassured her that we had her daughter in our care, under the most fabulous of nurses," and he gave her knee a quiet squeeze. Tara could only hang her head.

Ethan frowned as he continued. "She told me that she and her husband had been in Israel, and when the Sunnydale implosion happened a week and a half ago they hadn't heard about it immediately. When she did hear, she pestered local law enforcement, but there seemed to be a mix-up. Everywhere she phoned people kept telling her that Willow was dead.

"But then early Saturday morning she received a phone call from someone named Angel, who claimed to know where Willow was."

Tara's head shot up, her eyes red-rimmed. "Angel found Willow's parents?" she asked.

"Angel was your contact in L.A., right?" Ethan asked.

As Tara nodded, Ethan shook his head in astonishment. "This is an amazing world you belong to, Tara." Noting her disapproval, he then said, "Suffice it to say that Sheila tracked me down, demanded information, and then told me that she and her husband would be flying home as soon as possible. They will be in town tomorrow."

"But how do you know… about Willow… um?" Tara gulped.

"Sheila said she saw the names of the deceased, and Willow's boyfriend was one of them. She then asked if we had somehow saved him, too, but I had to tell her no."

"What was his name?" Tara asked, her head still hanging.

"Tara, don't do this to yourself," Ethan pleaded, once again raising her chin with his hand. Her eyes were swimming in grief and pain; she felt the stinging across the scabs on her face.

Tara sat so quiet, so still, an unmoving statue, as her heart froze. Or tried to. But always, always Tara could feel the emanations of peace from the woman on the hospital bed, rays of hope and encouragement that continually softened her embittered soul.

"We've got work to do," Tara said grimly, wiping her tears carefully, aware of the pounding pain in her eye where Donny had hit her. She got up from the couch and went to her duffel bag, and she could feel Ethan's eyes on her.

"Don't you understand, Tara?" Ethan said, following her, twirling her around, grabbing her arms. "I love you! I don't want to see you hurt. You don't have to do this."

Tara allowed herself to look into his eyes, and grief overwhelmed her again. "I have to," she whispered. "I'm the only one who can, and it must be done. Besides, you're right. I am in love with her."

"Why?" he begged, still holding her arms. "Why must you do it? Why must it be done at all? What is going on in there?"

Last night Tara had kept back some information, not wanting to burden Ethan more than necessary, already feeling so responsible for his loss of innocence, so now she clasped his hands and cast in her mind for the explanation. How to explain that this small woman would save the world, and that if she died, the whole world would too? But her magic, disturbed by the wild concentration of items in the duffel, by her tempestuous feelings, and by the ever-emanating waves of goodness from Willow, seeped unbidden into his mind. Through the contact of her fingers with the skin of his arms, a tendril of Tara's thought invaded Ethan's thoughts, and what she saw there crushed her.

Oh, no. Who now do I trust?

And Ethan's eyes widened, and she knew he sensed her invasion, as she found out his plan. "I only wanted to save you," he whispered.

"Oh, God, Ethan," Tara gasped. "If I can't trust you, who can I trust?" She wrenched herself away from him, from his mind, and stumbled over the duffel bag on the floor.

"I can't just stand here and watch you die," Ethan said. "I know that there is no hope for us, no reason for me to believe that I could be anything but a friend to you, but at least you'd still be alive!"

Tara looked over at Willow's bed, agonizing. Every minute that passed Willow remained in her mind-prison, forced to endure unimaginable torments, and witness unspeakable atrocities. And Caleb, her jailer, her prisoner, walked through the burning streets of her mind, his eyes ablaze, always hunting her, catching her, reaving her flesh from her bones with delicious contentment, bearing down on her, taking from her what had never been taken by force before.

"Ethan, can I tell you everything? Please? You must understand why we're doing this, why I'm sacrificing myself for this unknown girl," Tara said, her mind whirling over the betrayal she witnessed in Ethan's mind, a betrayal she actually understood.

Just because Willow couldn't love her didn't mean she couldn't be in love with Willow. Looking inside herself, Tara realised that yes, she would betray someone to save her true love. She would do just about anything. She cast her mind back on the last several days

 _(her cells pouring into the dreadful gut wound of Willow Rosenberg)_

 _(watching the demon's eyes as they burst)_

 _(feeding on the healthy farmer's body of her brother to serve her own needs)_

 _(resisting every effort of the goddess)_

and sadly realised that she had gone so far down this path that there was no hope of turning back. No hope for her, but plenty of hope for Willow.

And that was okay.

With the light of her conviction shining behind her eyes, her soul dancing with the desire to save Willow, Tara once again sat down on the couch with Ethan. "Ethan, I understand that you would do just about anything to save me, even sabotaging my spell," and he hung his head a bit in remorse. Tara wouldn't have it, and lifted his chin with her hand. "It's okay," she said. "I understand now. But I'm going to tell you the truth now, and all of the truth that I possess. I need you, Ethan. Without your help I won't survive this spell at all. I need to trust you."

Ethan gulped, and then nodded.

Tara rallied her thoughts, and then began. "There is an evil which calls itself the First. It has existed since before the creation of this world. It is timeless, and it is eternal. It is the balance on the scale. This world was not built as a paradise ~it first belonged to the races of demons called the Old Ones. But when the gods made man in their own image they wanted to purify the earth and give it to their new children. A council of the gods was formed, 99 of them to be exact, and together they combined their magics to force the First, the root of all evil, to another plane or dimension. Therein lay their genius, and their chief sorrow. Evil cannot be destroyed, not ever, but with their banishment evil could no longer physically walk on the earth; it could only influence by whisper, nightmare, or demonic possession.

"There are places on earth where the filter between the demon dimension of the Old Ones and our own dimension is thin. These places are called hellmouths, for reasons I'm sure you can understand. From beneath you it devours, and any hellmouth became a locus for evil activity. There was one such hellmouth in Sunnydale.

"For the past year the First has been waging war on the world, centering it's offensive in Sunnydale on the very location of the hellmouth. They were trying to break free of the filter and physically invade the earth once again and rework it into a demon paradise. Every horror that man has unleashed on man, war, plague, bombs, terrorism, will be as nothing compared to the horrors the Old Ones would unleash on our earth. They would bathe in our blood, and feed on our horror, and delight in it."

Ethan's face was turning ashen. Tara continued, "Into every generation there is born a woman who is called the Slayer. She is the one destined to fight the vampires, demons, and forces of darkness. She and a group of her friends, including Willow," and Tara waved at the prone woman in the hospital bed, "fought the First evil all this year. Last week they rallied together and used their formidable combat skills as well as the fiercest magics to collapse the hellmouth in Sunnydale and stop the invasion.

"There were dozens of them, Ethan, mostly girls, for only girls can be Slayers, and they all died. Every last one. Except Willow. They were willing to lay down their lives to protect the earth, and not a single one of us knew it."

Heart-wrenching sorrow welled up inside her, and Tara felt a great lump form in her throat. She had been so oblivious, she and the rest of the world, daring to go on with their lives as if all was normal, as if they weren't standing on the brink of annihilation.

A few moments passed in the silence of Willow's hospital room, and Tara wept. Finally Tara continued once more. "Willow was supposed to use the mystical power of a weapon called the scythe to banish the last manifestation of the First on earth, a man imbued with all the power the First could offer. A preacher named Caleb. But she was attacked before she could fight this mystical battle. A goddess named Aranaea used her magic to imprison Caleb so he couldn't rally another army, a prison of flesh and bone. A prison right there," and she pointed once again at Willow, Ethan's gaze helplessly following.

"The only access point to our reality that remains to the First is through that woman. If she dies, Caleb's prison dissolves, and he is free to wreak his terrible vengeance. That's why she must live."

"But what is your part in all this?" Ethan asked. "Why are you so convinced you are going to die?"

Tara looked at her duffel bag on the floor that she had filled this morning with all the components of the spell she was about to perform. Her heart swelling in love for Willow, she returned her gaze to Ethan. "Willow is the most powerful witch on earth. Only she has the power to defeat the First completely, to utterly banish them back to the other plane of existence. But she can't do a single thing while she is in a coma. Caleb is holding her mind hostage. But not for long.

"Today I will call on the goddess Thespia to bind Caleb with chains of adamant, and we will transfer him. From Willow's mind, into my own. With the amulet of Thespia around my neck, Caleb shouldn't have enough power to overcome my mind; he will be safely locked away. That's one reason that you're here, though," she said sadly.

"You told me that if your head pops up and your eyes are completely black, that I'll have to kill you," Ethan replied, with a dawning sense of understanding.

"It will mean that he has broken free of his bonds. While my hands are connected to Willow's head you will kill me, and he will be forced back into Willow. If that happens, it's really the end. No one else on earth has the power to do this for Willow." Tara noted the shock in Ethan's face and continued, grasping his chill hand, "It's not going to happen, Ethan. The power of Thespia and her amulet is strong. Caleb will not overpower me. But now you see why I need you so badly."

Ethan nodded, and then said, "But you still haven't told me why you're convinced you're going to die."

Tara tucked strands of her chocolate brown hair back behind her ears and sat a little straighter on the couch. "Every act of magic has a consequence, a sacrifice. When Willow regains her strength and sets out to destroy the manifestation of the First she will have to kill both me and the preacher in my mind simultaneously. Just as the dozens of girls died to close the hellmouth in Sunnydale, so will I become the sacrifice for this act of magic."

"And if you don't, the entire world is doomed," Ethan replied, his voice breaking. "I get it now, Tara." He suddenly pushed himself off the couch. "God, how can you live like this?" he asked. "How can you possibly go on, knowing what you do?"

Tara stood and walked over to Willow's blanketed body. Allowing every ounce of love and compassion she felt for this woman to wash over her, cloaking her in radiance, Tara stood by Willow's feet and gently grasped one of them with her hand, softly squeezing. "Because I choose to," she replied.

And just beyond the grey filter, just beyond sight, occupying the same space but in another dimension, the council of the gods rejoiced. Ninety-nine of them together lifted their voices in song and celebration. "Finally, she has made the choice," Thespia said to her little sister. "No thanks to you, Aranaea. You should know by now that you can't force human will." Thespia watched as Tara touched Willow in love, and said, "Now we can save them both."


	13. Tara Enraptured

**Chapter Thirteen**

 **Tara Enraptured**

Tara stood by Willow's bed, gently holding one of Willow's blanketed feet. Ethan stood across from her, his face filled with wonder. The air tingled and danced with joy; they could feel bubbly effervescence swirl inside them, lending them strength for this most difficult and dangerous task. This place was sacred ground, indeed. Less than a week ago Peter Whitney had died here, and anchored this place to the gods. Tara's soul fed on the heaven-threads cascading through the room as she softly repeated, "I choose to."

"Let's get to work," Ethan said, smiling. Tara nodded and gently peeled down Willow's blanket, then just as reverently opened up Willow's robe. Once again she was astonished by the thin pale scar across Willow's abdomen. _I did that._ She changed the heart monitor pads, placing new ones over her shoulders and another under her rib. Tying the robe shut again, Tara adjusted the blood pressure cuff on Willow's arm, the arm without the IV, and placed the pulse oximeter on Willow's index finger. Instantly the machines started their beeping, their slow cadence in celebration of life.

Ethan pulled a stainless steel tray by Willow's bed. On it was an array of marked syringes. Ethan inventoried them, saying, "10 mg of Haldol, in case you need to be sedated, 5 mg of Versed, two syringes of ephedrine, 5 mg each, in case either of you arrest, and, uh, 30 mg of Morphine, to kill you."

Tara took heart at the steadiness in his voice. "I'll lay out the spell before you prep me," Tara said, opening the duffel bag. She took out a large jar of blue sand and began to sprinkle it in a large circle around the hospital bed. "Try to stay behind the circle. Only enter the circle if you absolutely must, to save me or Willow," she said as she worked. She looked up to see Ethan nod.

Tara then set up a dozen clusters of candles, each in a grouping of three, and directed Ethan to start lighting them. From inside the duffel she took a hollow gourd, intricately carved, and placed it gently on Willow's chest. Yet another jar held a brackish liquid, and she reeled back a little at the stench of it as she opened the jar. Dipping one finger into the liquid, she quickly anointed Willow's forehead, lips, and just above Willow's heart. Then she anointed herself likewise.

Lastly Tara drew out the amulet of Thespia, again marvelling at its heaviness. The amber core of it began to sparkle as Tara pulled it over her neck. From now on, some part of the amulet had to be in contact with her skin, always. If the connection were broken, all would be lost. Tara took a deep breath, and then returned to Ethan, who was standing by the steel tray. She sat down on the stool and gave him her left arm. He snaked a rubber over her bicep and tied it tightly, then flicked the back of her hand, waiting for her veins to emerge. Ethan smoothly guided an IV needle into the back of Tara's hand, popped the catheter into her vein and withdrew the needle. He swiftly taped down the hep-lock and then released the rubber band over her bicep. Tara didn't really need the intravenous fluid itself as much as she needed an instant portal to her bloodstream. If Ethan had to chemically kill her, he had to do it quickly, and the port on the IV was for that purpose.

Ethan pulled over another heart monitor and politely turned his back as Tara lifted up her shirt to put the pads on her own shoulders and under her rib. She couldn't help but trace the rapidly healing gashes on her breasts as she did so. Then she put her shirt back down and cleared her throat. Ethan returned to her side and fitted a blood pressure cuff over her right bicep and lifted an eyebrow as he held up the pulse oximeter.

"Nope. I have to have all my fingers on Willow's head," Tara replied. In the background they could hear the hissing of Willow's blood pressure cuff as it automatically took a reading.

"How often do you want it to do a reading?" Ethan asked, striding to the machine.

"Every five minutes," Tara replied. "Mine, too." Tara bent over her own machine and quickly calibrated it.

Then they both stood in Willow's room, lit by deflected sunlight and still sparkling with hope. "Good luck," Ethan said.

Tara nodded and softly strode into the circle she had created, leaving her machines just outside the circle. She lovingly stroked Willow's hair, which was soft and clean _(John must have washed it)_ and then she placed her fingers on Willow's head. Gently, always aware of the broken skull within, Tara wallowed in the feeling of her fingers on Willow's skin, a tingling moving up her arms. She allowed her eyes to close and concentrated. Tara could feel her heart beating, and a similar throbbing emerge from the amulet around her neck. The dabs of potion on her skin were evaporating, and she felt their coolness.

Showtime.

Tara cleared her throat, closed her eyes, and began the ritual incantation. "Oh ye gods, here lies a warrior of the people. She walks in shadow. She walks in blindness. She is besieged by evil. Protect her." Tara gulped, feeling a wave of energy surge through her, leaving goosebumps, her skin tingling, and she could hear Ethan gasp.

"For I am the vessel," Tara choked, a lump forming in her throat, power welling up through her fingers. "I am the vessel, but yours is the power. Into your hands I subsume my will. Do what you must to save the world." For a moment Tara reflected on her first experience in Willow's mind, how she discovered that Willow had been god-ravaged, and had surrendered her will completely to that of Aranaea.

And Tara finally understood what Aranaea had told her. That, as great and powerful a witch as Willow was, Tara was greater, but only as a healer. Tara's mind spun as she realised she was about to commit her soul into the hands of not one, but three separate goddesses. She would be eclipsed. For this moment, no one person on earth would have greater power than she.

As if from a great distance, Tara could hear Ethan breathing strangely. She continued, ever feeling a deepening of power within her. "Aranaea, by your power, by your grace, may you be my sword arm. Infuse me with the power of the scythe, help me vanquish mine enemy. Lower him into the dust, overcome him.

"Thespia, goddess, ruler of all darkness. I honour your knowledge. I invoke your ferocity. May you ensnare the evil one, may you bind him with sharp cords, may you encapsulate him. Jailer of demons, Thespia, imprison him."

Tara could feel the amulet heat up on her skin, the tickling of her fingers became numbness and she marvelled at the power in the room. The heaven threads became heaven sheets, and she knew from Ethan's laboured breathing that this was something he did not expect.

And the veil grew thin.

"Maia, goddess of my heart, I honour you. I implore you, may you protect my heart. May you keep me free of the evil which I beckon, may you shelter my heart in your ever-beating palm. Oh, ye gods, hear me."

And as Tara finished the incantation and visualised herself as the chalice, the vessel, she could see that vessel filling with godly power, till it overflowed, leaving a backwash of indescribable perfection, a scent of celestial flowers filling the room.

And the veil ruptured.

Tara felt a growing shock wave rip through her, until she felt that her eyes would burst and her skin would rip right from her. Notwithstanding its power, the wave felt right, it felt like goodness, like lotion being sensuously rubbed into her skin, like a fluttering of butterfly-light kisses along her sensitive inner arms. It felt like love, not just brotherly love, but all-consuming, soul-losing, faith-shattering love, the kind of love you spend a lifetime looking for and praise the gods when you feel it for but a single moment.

Buzzing with godly power, feeling the separate entities of not one but three powerful goddesses tiptoe into her mind, Tara slowly seeped into the landscape of Willow's mind, sending her awareness through her fingertips until she materialised on the vast dark plain of her war, Willow's tree still drooping in blackness. She looked down at herself and was surprised to see her apparel.

The goddesses had outfitted her in clothing she could only describe as dangerous. Her hair was pulled safely up and away, save for a few soft brown tendrils that sighed against her neck. She was wearing a white top with a V-neck that showed a surprising amount of cleavage, and stopped short an inch above her black leather pants. On her feet were stylish black boots. Around her neck was the amulet of Thespia, the spokes of the sun pricking her breasts through the thin fabric of her shirt. She had never in her life felt so beautiful, and so powerful.

And though she could not physically see the gods she had summoned, she could feel their presence, imbuing her with strength and resolve. All too soon she could sense the coming of the preacher, could feel the burning hatred flow from him, crisping the ground as he walked. The sky was a dome of inky purple clouds, roiling endlessly, boiling in the fury of the first evil. Soon enough they faced each other, Tara a paragon of virtue, enraptured by three gods he could not see, Caleb a manifestation of evil, Willow's dying tree behind them both.

"You can't have her," Caleb said amiably. "She's mine."

Tara closed her eyes and concentrated. Suddenly the scythe flickered into existence, resting easily in the palms of her hands. As she opened her eyes, adjusting to the waves of power emanating from the fierce weapon, she could see his face constrict in shock.

"I don't want her," Tara said, just as soft, just as fierce. "It's you I'm after."

Aranaea's presence filtered into her mind, and Tara felt a feline grace and power fill her muscles. And she walked towards Caleb, an easy stride, a small smile on her face, until she could see her own reflection in his eyes. He loomed before her, only a few feet away, his eyes dead black pools of stagnant madness.

Tara suddenly rushed him, swinging the scythe. But he, also, was the predator, with hundreds of thousands of years of experience to his name, and he easily dodged the blow, catching the handle of the scythe in one of his powerful hands. With his free hand he landed a devastating punch to her face, and Tara reeled back. The thin scabs on her face peeled free and blood began to flow thinly down her face.

Gritting her teeth against the blooming pain, Tara took the scythe in both of her hands, starting a tug-of-war over the weapon. Caleb's free hand once again came out of nowhere, landing a fierce uppercut on her chin. Her teeth bit into the soft flesh of her cheek and stars burst behind her vision. Tara could feel her heart beating a mad dance of frenzy, even as she tried to catch her breath and regroup.

But the preacher had danced this way, and a million times before. "You think you are powerful?" he snarled at her, as he gripped the weapon in both of his hands and used his leverage to bodily lift her from the ground, forcing Tara in an arc over his body to slam with resounding force into the deadened ground of Willow's mind.

And yet Tara would not yield.

Blood pouring from her cheek, her arms bruised, a rib broken, certainly, Tara grimly faced the

 _(long preacher)_

insignificant man and said, "The meek shall inherit the earth." Caleb rushed to her broken form on the ground and lifted her up by the neck, up and up until her feet were dangling off the ground. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Tara only smiled once again through her pain, lifted her legs and kicked him in the chest with all the force she could muster. Caleb went flying through the air to crash resoundingly on the ground, while Tara spun in the air and landed in a feline crouch, the scythe still in her hands.

 _Now, Tara!_ Aranaea screamed at her, from within her.

Caleb was struggling to rise, and Tara was a tawny lioness, bent on death. She levelled a vast overhand blow at him. He raised his arm as if to somehow deflect the blow of death, but she just as smoothly changed the angle of attack, and her underhand blow crunched mightily into his unprotected side.

And he cried tears of tar, and his blood was the black blood of the earth.

And the weapon hung there, suspended in his side, until it began to glow with an unearthly white radiance, and then it melted, retreating into the defeated form of the preacher.

As his heavy body convulsed on the ground, as he writhed in agony, thick ropes of dull metal snaked around him. The goddess Thespia materialised in Willow's mind, standing next to angelic Tara, her palms extended to him, sharp cords emerging from them, spider-like, again and again, encasing Caleb as in a cocoon.

Thespia and Aranaea went over to the prone body of the preacher. The only part of his body that was not covered in Thespia's cords was his face, though she had indeed gagged him. They stood him up so he faced Tara, and his eyes were blazing. Tara knew that there was nothing in this world that would give him greater pleasure than killing her.

As Tara prepared to inhale him into her own body, she felt a stab of fear. This was it. From this moment on, there was no turning back. This path had only one conclusion, and it was her death at Willow's hands.

And she thought of Willow, and imagined sunlight on Willow's hair, and laughter bubbling from Willow's mouth, and the smell of sandalwood and roses. So she stared fully into the face of her death, and smiled.

 _I am the Kraken._

Bring it on.

The goddess Maia also now appeared, standing behind Tara. Tara could not see her, but she could feel her, could feel the waves of warmth and love and protection emanating from her. Maia walked up to Tara and then embraced her from behind, running one slender arm over Tara's waist, and placing her other hand squarely on Tara's breast, directly over her heart. "You are protected," the goddess whispered into Tara's ear.

Tara focused all her strength, all her power, and stared at Caleb. Then she viciously inhaled, and Caleb's solid form wavered, and then dissolved into a steady stream. She inhaled that stream of concentrated evil, ingested that violent concatenation of hatred, and continued to inhale even as his most horrible dust settled into her body. But there was more, more, and still more, and she choked on it, and gasped, and heaved, and felt the clutching arms of Maia around her, supporting her. She stood still for a moment, catching her breath, feeling the heat of the goddess behind her, and rallied her strength for another breath. She inhaled again, and dining on his ashes, Tara fed on the First Evil until she felt she would die. Her knees began to buckle, and stars began to dance behind her eyes, and as she inhaled the last deadly dirt of Caleb she and Maia fell to the ground.

Finally it was over, and she lay on the blighted ground, shuddering in pain and exhaustion. Maia continued to lay behind her, stroking her hair, pulling her close. "You did it, Tara. No one else could do it, but you did it."

Tara lay there for a long while, and the two other gods knelt down by her. "Will he stay chained up?" she finally had strength to ask Thespia.

"Yes, dear heart," Thespia answered, stroking Tara's hair. "Never remove the amulet, though. Not for bathing, not for sleeping, not ever."

Tara weakly nodded. Despite Aranaea's presence and help during the battle, she couldn't quite look at the goddess, a little bit of resentment still flaring in her breast, and she knew that the little goddess could feel it. Tara closed her eyes and lay on the ground for long minutes.

"Look, Tara," Maia said joyously, squeezing Tara gently, and Tara forced her weary eyes open. Maia was pointing to the landscape, which was steadily changing. The dark clouds of Caleb's anger were gone, and Tara was instead lit by the steady glow of Willow's ever-beating heart. Willow's tree didn't change (how could it?), but the grass beneath Tara began to heal, sending forth shoots of bright green.

"You've freed her, Tara," Thespia said. "Now go find her, and bring her out."

Tara laboriously stood up, and as she did so she felt a light ripple of energy pass through her, erasing her wounds and garbing her anew. The black dome had dissolved, and now she found herself robed in truth.

 _you will appear exactly as the host mind sees you_

And as Tara had appeared as a little girl so long ago in her mother's mind, and as Peter's nurse in Mr. Whitney's mind, so now she looked down at herself in shock.

Tara was an angel.


	14. In the Arms of the Angel

Chapter Fourteen

The Arms of the Angel

Willow Rosenberg was running for her life. Caleb was hot on her heels, and she felt an overwhelming desperation come over her. He was going to catch her, again, and do things to her, again, and it will all happen, again, and again. And though the breath hitching in her lungs and the blood pumping through her veins all felt real, she knew she was dead. She must be. She was dead, and this was hell, and it was far worse than any prognosticating Jew could have imagined. How else could she be thus entrapped?

She stumbled on a piece of rubble and fell heavily to her knees, crying out in pain as she felt the crunch of concrete scrape into her skin, drawing blood. She was dead. She must be. She had spilt buckets and buckets of blood, again and again, painting every darkened street in Sunnydale with it. How else would it be possible to lose so much blood and still be alive? She heard wild laughter behind her as the preacher casually caught up to her and loomed over her, a sardonic smile twisting his lips, his eyes dancing in hellish delight.

"Now, you're not even trying anymore," he complained, hunkering down next to her on his knees, careful not to let his pristine clothing touch the reviled ground. Everywhere Willow had run, trying to escape him, she could see a similar destruction, as if earthquakes, plagues, and fire had all beset Sunnydale at once, turning it from a familiar, if hellmouthy, city into an unknown dimension of pure evil. And everywhere she ran she could see the bodies of the dead, and smell them, and when she fell on them they would burst into ripe showers of decay.

Yes, this was hell.

The preacher slowly brought a scalpel from his inside jacket; it's edge gleaming in the dark, lamplit devastation that used to be Sunnydale. Not again. Willow began to sob, tears etching furrows of cleanliness down her dirtied cheeks, and she scrambled with her arms and legs as if to run, but he casually threw her to the ground.

As the preacher flipped her on her back and sat astride her hips, pinning her arms underneath her body, Willow could only thrash and moan. She felt the hard bite of chunks of concrete in her back, along her legs, but that was nothing next to the evil bite of maliciousness she could see in Caleb's black eyes. With the point edge of the scalpel, Caleb popped off the buttons from her blouse, slowly, with devilish intent. "You are a dirty girl. A whore. And your sin is in your blood. We let out the blood, we let out the sin. Any questions?"

He tilted the blade of the scalpel and slowly slid a shallow cut from her neck to her sternum. "No screaming?" he asked amiably. "I do so like it when you scream…" Willow did scream, then, but the sound lost all intensity in the emptiness of Sunnydale, since she knew that no one would rescue her. There was no Buffy anymore, no Xander, no Giles. She knew because she kept stumbling over their rotting bodies, again and again, as Caleb played his tricks on her.

Willow felt like a lab rat, a plaything, a toy. He would chase her, then catch her, and then slowly and maliciously slice her flesh from her bones, or use her in ways no man ever should, and when she was a hairs breath away from dying, she would rematerialize in a darkened street, her flesh and clothes intact, hearing his most dreadful approach.

How many times has he killed her?

And now, as Caleb continued to make his shallow cuts, her blood running in rivulets on the despairing ground, Willow shook with grief. Was there to be no end? Was this her fate then, to be hunted, reaved, and broken for all eternity? What crime had she ever committed to warrant such punishment? Willow cried, and gasped in pain, and ever and ever the scalpel gleamed wetly, and she knew despair.

But then something changed.

Caleb apparently heard something, for he lifted and cocked his head. Willow watched as his eyes narrowed, and he suddenly bellowed, "NO!" Rising powerfully from her body, Caleb ran toward the park, a lean and powerful menace, and Willow cried in relief. She watched him run away, and then he disappeared behind the thick black wall.

Willow rarely had occasion to inspect this black wall that enclosed her prison, her hell. Sometimes Caleb would take his sweet time in finding her, and she would have precious moments to run her hands over it, it's strength as of steel. Once before he had disappeared behind it, and had returned in a rare fury, even for him. The things he had done to her then… and Willow shook her head. Don't even think it, Rosenberg.

Consumed with curiosity, and hating herself for it, Willow shakily got to her feet. She moaned in pain as she took off her outer jacket and then slipped off her ravaged blouse. Wadding up the blouse, she pressed it to her upper chest and breasts where Caleb had concentrated his carving, panting with pain all the while. And even though she knew there was no one around, her sense of modesty prevailed, and she pulled on her outer jacket once more, doing up all the buttons to cover her nakedness. Stumbling through the dead black street she entered the park, then finally arrived at the wall. Her legs no longer strong enough to support her, Willow collapsed at the base of the wall, and received the shock of her life when the wall budged.

Her heart pounding fiercely, Willow touched the wall with her begrimed fingers. It was slick and wet, also something that had never happened before. She poked it with her finger, and it retreated like the skin of a balloon. Filled with hope for the first time since she could remember (for ever her imprisonment ran back in her mind) Willow lurched to a nearby tree and broke off a branch. Returning to her knees before the wall Willow jabbed it with as much force as she could muster. The wall didn't breach, but it did sink inwards a little. And it was growing thinner. Like a dark fabric, she could almost see through it.

Willow concentrated even as she held her bleeding wounds, concentrated with all her might on seeing what was beyond the barrier. And what she saw astounded her.

There was a woman there, who was dressed an awful lot like Buffy when she was on patrol. And the woman was fighting Caleb, fighting him with the…

No. It cannot be.

There was no way Willow could ever forget the scythe, and the power of it. She could remember the white power that surged through her veins, the incredibly deep reservoir of magics she tapped into. And then, the feeling of being connected, of activating some latent control, as girls all over the world awoke to a new sense of being, a new sense of power and responsibility. And then, the feeling of her life's work approaching, her awesome task to fix the breach in dimensions, to finally eradicate the First.

And then, and then…

Utter destruction. Ruination. Ubervamps dining on her neck, and Bringers slashing her skin, and the walls of Sunnydale High crumbling around her. And Faith. Faith picking her up, and carrying her to the bus that had too few, way too few Slayers in it. Even as she realised it, and cried out for Buffy, and Xander, and Giles, and Dawn. And the roaring, a great mouth emerging, devouring the city beneath them, and they weren't fast enough, she was never fast enough, she was always getting caught, getting reaved…

And as Willow watched through the thinning barrier, the woman's body was sailing in the air, and crashing into the ground, and Caleb was rejoicing. "NO!" Willow screamed from beyond the barrier. This unknown warrior was going to be killed, and there was nothing Willow could do except watch, and be imprisoned forever. Willow sat at the edge of the wall, pressing into it, willing it to burst, even as she watched the woman fight for her life. Willow cried, and sobbed, and Caleb was holding the unknown woman far off the ground with his powerful hands around her slender neck, and Willow knew that all it would take was a crushing grasp and yet another life would be over.

Yet the woman rallied, and pulled off a complex kicking-crouching manoeuvre that would have made Buffy proud, and Caleb went reeling away. "NOW!" Willow screamed, and her heart soared in jubilation as the scythe crunched hideously into Caleb's side, and he was borne down into the dust. And Willow wept great gulping sobs of uncontrollable joy, and she continued to watch the tableau through the black wall that was growing ever thinner.

And what she saw she did not understand.

For Caleb dissolved into a whirling tornado of dust that the woman sucked in, breathing it in, swallowing it again and again until she fell alone to the ground.

And the wall burst.

Willow was thrown violently back in the thunderous clap, slamming into a tree with tremendous force, and there she lay, stunned and disoriented, for long minutes. Blood continued to weep from her chest, soaking into her slashed blouse, and her head swam from where it cracked into the tree trunk. Scared and witless, Willow could only open her eyes and notice the unthinkable.

The sun was rising.

Never in her long imprisonment in Sunnydale had she seen the sun. Ever she fought, was caught, was reaved in darkness. She stared at the horizon where the sun was rising in holy fury, and she believed that she could see into the hidden depths between earth and sky, a place like a highway to the very sun that if she only had the courage to tread, she would discover the very secrets of life and living. Rippling shocks coursed through Willow's skin, and she drew closer to true ecstasy than she ever had in her entire life.

And an angel approached.

Willow lay at the base of the tree, her face transfixed in joy. She started to stumble to her feet, but her consciousness swam, and pain once again knifed through her body. Cursing her clumsiness, Willow just sat back again and watched the approach of a being too radiant and too beautiful to be described. The sun was behind the angel, casting her face in soft shadow, surrounding her in a halo of light. Willow fed on the light; she had not seen any sunlight for what seemed weeks, years, even. It soaked into her skin, irradiated her muscles, causing her to tingle in anticipation.

And the angel ever approached.

Willow found the strength to prop herself against the tree, feeling the incredible power advancing on her, her heart aching as if to break, an indescribable longing filling her gut. Willow began to cry, and she bowed before the heavenly being that was so calmly walking to her.

And her soul filled with glory, for the knowledge that she, little Willow Rosenberg, was the sole intention and purpose of this being. That there was nothing that would stop this gentle advance, that she was actually worth something to someone, there was another reason for her life. Was she being redeemed from hell? Was this her saviour?

Unknown stirring filled her gut, almost frightening in its intensity, as she was relentlessly showered in waves of love. And not just the brotherly love you'd expect from an angel, but all-reaching, soul-shattering, body-wrenching romantic love that you hope for your entire life and never experience

 _(not with Xander, not with Oz, not with anyone)_

and it only hints of a power far beyond anything mortals should ever experience.

Finally the angel stopped before Willow's prone form, and Willow looked up through tear-filled eyes. It was the same woman who had fought Caleb, but she was no longer dressed as a Slayer. She was garbed in a shimmering gown of starlight, of moonlight, of wishes. The white gown encircled her slender neck and hugged her voluptuous curves, leaving her back and shoulders bare, then discreetly flared out to pool like snow on the ground. Two shimmering white wings extended from her shoulders, and the angel used them to cast a light shadow over Willow's eyes. No longer having to squint, Willow wiped her eyes and gazed fully on the angel for the first time.

The angel's face was young, and her brown hair intricately braided and swept up. Her face was clear and glowing with health and vitality. Her eyes, oh gods, her eyes! Her eyes were the clear blue of the first spring bellflower, and they were warm and tender, and looked on her with such love and devotion that Willow's breath caught in her throat. The angel's arms were generously proportioned, and Willow spent a moment staring at her breasts, soft globes of perfection that Willow always wished she could have for herself.

And something within Willow bloomed, a gentle flowering, and Willow remembered a time in junior high school when she had had her first crush. It was with a girl in high school, a girl with generous lips, breasts, and legs. The girl never once looked at Willow that way, and as soon as Willow realised what it was she was thinking, horror took over her, and she bottled those feelings deep inside her. And rare moments with Xander or with Oz, when they had used her in the ways boys like to, and part of her had liked it, and part of her didn't, she cast a single thought back to that unknown and nearly forgotten girl, and wondered if things could ever be different.

Similar feelings had assaulted her at times over the years. Willow remembered when her evil, vampire self that had come on to her, filling her with irreconcilable feelings, part of her disgusted, part of her exulting and curious. And as the years passed and she grew more and more dissatisfied with men, she would look upon other women and wonder. But the same shyness that had kept her from Xander and others in the very beginning of high school assaulted her again, and she could think of nothing witty to say; her mouth would open, and various vowel sounds would emerge, and she would stop, feeling stupid and worthless and nothing. So nothing had ever happened, but the yearning was there, and no one knew, not even her closest friend Buffy, that when they went to the Bronze Willow was starting to look at the girls, not the guys.

The angel bent down to grasp Willow's hands, and they were warm, and lithe, and delicate. With gentle pressure, the angel helped Willow get to her feet, holding her as Willow staggered up, and didn't let go of her hands when Willow was up. In the past that would have worried her, half of her liking the feeling of another woman's hands on her, half of her afraid of what it meant, but here and now it didn't matter. The angel's hands were a lifeline to a barely remembered reality, and Willow never wanted to let go.

They stood there holding hands, facing each other, and Willow once again felt small and ugly and no good, familiar feelings from junior high, and a little part of her overactive mind began to run a movie reel of slights and insults of the past. Willow closed her eyes, feeling weak with loss of blood, ever feeling the crunch of concrete under her bones, the devastating slice of the scalpel blade, the slamming force of the tree as it hit her head, and the devastating knowledge that who could ever love Willow, poor silly little Willow.

See, Xander didn't, even when Willow was in love with him. No, he was all about Buffy when she first arrived, and expected Willow to help him get her. And then he was all about Cordelia, and what the frilly heck was going on with that, everyone knew how shallow and useless Cordelia was. And yet Willow finally got her smoochie with him, and it almost ruined everything with Oz.

Oz. Her first true love. And she had loved him, in her Willow-y way, but deep in her heart she knew she was more excited about the thought of being in love with him. She had only wanted to keep up with everyone else, with Buffy and Angel, and Xander and Cordelia. She had no desire to be the odd one out, so she had recklessly thrown herself into a relationship that was always about his satisfaction and never hers.

And she kept taking him back, even after he cheated on her with that other werewolf. Even after he left her for months at a time to go on tour. And then, this past year, just as the First was emerging

 _from beneath you it devours_

he left her for good. She was always getting left behind, and as she thought these horrifying thoughts, and played this insane movie reel over and over in her mind, she began to sob in despair. No one could love Willow, poor silly little Willow.

As if reading her mind the angel started to pull Willow into her body. Willow's eyes flew open as she briefly considered the horror of getting her useless blood all over the angel's gown, but the angel would have none of it, encircling Willow within her arms. They were the same height, but Willow was a little smaller, and when she folded herself into the angel's bosom she felt an incredible measure of peace, along with a very pleasant thrill along her bones. The angel reminded her of her grandmother's cookies, of playing with crayons, of swinging on the playset. It was comfort food, and Willow eagerly closed her eyes and sank into the embrace, running her arms along the angel's bare back, her fingers curiously running up to where the strong wings protruded from her shoulder blades.

Thus enveloped, Willow allowed herself to stay, and she could feel her heart beating in tandem with the angel's heart. And once again she wished she could freeze time, for there had never been pleasure to equal this. Willow cast her mind back, and could see only blackness, only death

 _only the preacher_

and she choked back a sob. The angel had not yet spoken, and still did not, only tightened her grip on Willow's besieged body. Encircled protectively, Willow allowed herself to cry, and she burrowed her head into the comfortable little hollow of the angel's throat. She clutched desperately at the womanly body, and sobbed and hiccupped in her grief. Still the angel made no sound, only held her, and Willow's heart melted. She'd never been held like this, certainly her mother had never held her with such fierce devotion, Buffy was too busy to ever give her a sustaining hug as long and delicious as this, and hugs from Xander and Oz were always too pushy, too self-serving.

So Willow cried, and felt the long sensuous fingers of the angel stroke her back, then they would lift and tangle in her hair, then they would drop and encircle her waist. And once again Willow felt a wave of love cascade from the angel, a wave so powerful it made her gasp. She loves me, Willow thought. Whoever this angel is, she loves me.

The thought brought Willow peace, and a small measure of torment. For long minutes had now passed, and Willow thought of excuses for prolonging this most amazing of embraces, afraid that the moment she let go of the angel, the angel would leave her.

Leave her as everyone else did.

Almost as if reading her mind, the angel pulled away slightly, so she could focus her beautiful blue eyes on Willow. "There is nothing to fear, Willow Rosenberg," the angel said, and her voice was soft as silk yet hard as dragon scale. "It's time for you to return to the world of the living."

Willow leaned back, but deliberately stayed in the angel's embrace, locking her fingers around the angel's waist, only then noticing that there was no blood on the angel's gown, for her intricately carved chest had somehow healed while in the angel's embrace. "You mean I'm alive?" she asked, looking back up into the angel's eyes.

"Yes, you are alive," the angel confirmed. "You're in a coma."

"A coma?" Willow replied, panicking. "Am I going to wake up? How will I wake up?"

The angel smiled gently, and Willow calmed a little. "This isn't Hollywood. I can't snap my fingers and have you wake up. Your head trauma damaged your brain, and you lost the path that leads you to consciousness. All you have to do is create a new one."

"Create a new one? How do I do that?"

"By visualising the outside world, and willing yourself to join it. Sometimes it takes days, sometimes it takes weeks, and some never wake at all."

Willow shivered in the angel's arms, but calmed as the angel smiled at her. "But I will wake," Willow said, looking for confirmation from the angel. The angel nodded. "Can you stay with me?" Willow breathed, her heart beating wildly in her chest.

The angel lifted one of her hands to caress Willow's cheek, wiping away her tears, and Willow melted into that hand. "I can't," the angel said, her own voice thick with grief. "I have other work to do, on the outside. I go to prepare a place for you there."

"Am I going to forget you?" Willow asked, her voice hitching over a great lump of sorrow in her throat.

"I don't know," the angel replied, crying softly. "I really don't know."

The angel's eyes melted into Willow's own, and the angel slightly parted her full and luscious lips. _She's going to kiss me_ , Willow thought, and part of her mind freaked out (that is so wrong!), but a stronger part needed it, needed to feel the difference between a man's lips and a woman's lips. Besides, it was just this once, and no one would ever know. Heck, she may never even remember this moment at all upon awakening. Why not enjoy it, and then forget it?

But the angel hesitated, her blue eyes sorrowing. And Willow made up her mind.

Willow lifted her hands from the angel's waist to cup the back of the angel's neck, and she pulled slightly. For the briefest moment the angel was stiff and unyielding, but then responded with a measure of passion that startled Willow. Willow pulled her face closer, then softly planted her lips on the angel's lips. For a long moment Willow just stood there, feeling the exquisite softness, the fullness, the depth of those lips, so different from a man's. This was good, but Willow wanted more.

So Willow used her hand to tilt the angel's neck, and Willow's whole world _shifted_ , as the angel's mouth opened slightly, and Willow rejoiced. She began to move her lips, first softly, almost teasing, skirting the open infinite expanse of the angel's mouth. But then she felt the angel's hands convulse around her back, clutching her with ardent intensity, and a wave of lust cascaded through Willow's body. She had never felt anything like this, not ever before.

Willow ran one hand up the angel's neck, and encircled the angel's waist with the other. With the total tilting of her world, of the mouth that suddenly gave meaning to her entire existence, Willow ran her tongue over the angel's lips and suddenly plunged it into the angel's mouth. The angel began to make small, needy growls in her throat, and Willow was pierced with joy. _I did that._

Their conjoined lips began to move faster, turning from a soft exploration into a wild fury. Willow felt branded, and each kiss the angel pressed to her lips Willow knew that the world as she had known it was changing irrevocably.

And the pleasure slowly turned into torment, as Willow was faced with the awful truth. This, this kiss, this love, this feeling was greater than she had ever experienced in her life, and she wouldn't even remember it. When she woke she would be in a barren wasteland, bereft of this joyous hope, and she would wander all the days of her life looking for something she could barely remember, a moment hidden out of time, lost in the coma, down a black hole of memory. And Willow wept, and pulled her lips away, and was astonished by the surge of passion she yet felt, her lips kiss-swollen and needy. Loathe to give up the feelings, yet constantly crying for the angel's imminent departure, Willow used her hand behind the angel's neck to tilt it upwards, and she planted slow, soft kisses down the angel's jaw line, down the smooth expanse of her creamy throat, feeling relentless pressure building between her legs. She finally stopped at the base of the throat, laving a final kiss over the angel's pulse point, then buried her head once again in the angel's shoulder and sobbed, a little in sorrow and a little in shame. How dare she feel like this, in the arms of a woman?

But then the angel spoke, and Willow was astonished by the seeming laughter in the angel's voice. "Oh, no, Willow, this is not the end." One of the angel's delicate hands gently lifted Willow's chin, so they stared at each other again, and Willow desperately tried to memorise the angel's eyes, nose, mouth… "It is just the beginning."

The angel disentangled her limbs from Willow's, and Willow felt cold. The angel folded her wings and the sun hit Willow in the face. Before her startled eyes the angel turned, and Willow could see the angel departing into that highway of the sun, waltzing down it to a place that Willow could never follow, except in death. For how else to experience the arms of an angel?

Willow looked down at her healed chest, and put her hands on her fluttering stomach. Maybe the faster she got out, the better she could remember the angel, her touch, her lips, her sighs. How did the angel tell her to get out? _By visualising the outside world, and willing yourself to join it._ What a Giles-y thing to say.

Maybe the angel was a Watcher when she was alive, Willow mused. No, not with the way she fought Caleb. A Slayer. The angel must be the ghost of a Slayer. Fighting Caleb. In her brain. Yeah, and Cinnamon Toast Crunch really tasted like Cinnamon Toast.

Better stick with the vowel sounds, Rosenberg. Leave critical thinking to sometime else.


	15. Scars

Chapter Fifteen

Scars

Tara awoke softly, deliciously, her body buzzing with feeling, the exquisite feeling of Willow's lips branded on her own. She kept her eyes closed as she returned to an awareness of the room, hearing the machines with their beeping, smelling the faint brackish potion she had dabbed on herself, feeling Willow's hair beneath her fingers. Where on earth did Willow learn to kiss like that? Straight indeed. Tara opened her eyes as her cheeks flushed, and she saw Ethan jump to his feet.

"Thank God," he breathed. "You're out." He came up to her, but waited on the other side of the blue line for her to push her stool away. The moment Tara exited the line he was gently pulling her and her machines to the nearby chair. She looked at the tray beside the hospital bed and noticed that two of the syringes were empty.

"What happened?" she said, as Ethan began to remove the hep-lock on the back of her hand. "How long have I been under?"

"You were only gone thirty minutes. About five minutes in you began suffering tachycardia. Your blood pressure began to climb, and when your beats per minute hit 130 I administered Ephedrine. This was just after you bit your cheek hard enough to draw blood."

Tara lifted her free hand to her cheek and felt it's swollenness, it's pain. She listened as Ethan continued, "I wiped off the blood I could without actually entering the circle. But then Willow's beats per minute also began to rise, and she suffered tachycardia only a few minutes after you did. I had to enter the circle, then, to give her the Ephedrine. I hope I didn't mess anything up." He finished with Tara's hand and before he could turn away, Tara caught his hand and gently squeezed.

"I couldn't have done it without you," she said softly. Ethan smiled, and then turned his back so Tara could remove the heart monitor pads from her shoulders and rib. As she got up, a white haze passed over her mind

 _(what did you just do?)_

and for a moment she swayed, about to pass out. Ethan caught her and steered her over to the brown couch.

Instead, Tara removed her shoes and sat in a half-lotus on the floor by the window. "I just need to meditate," she said softly, settling her butt on the floor and closing her eyes, her mind suddenly whirling with fear. She could feel the blood drain from her face, and desperately hoped that Ethan wouldn't notice.

"Can I clean up the spell, or will that bother you?" Ethan asked softly.

Tara opened her eyes, smiled and said, "No, it won't bother me. I would appreciate your help. I just need…" and she closed her eyes again and sighed softly. Taking slow and deep breaths, Tara managed to blank out the sound of Ethan moving around, sweeping the floor and stowing the candles as she withdrew into the whiteness of her breath.

And into the cacophony of her mind.

She had no right to kiss Willow. She shouldn't have done it. She should have pulled away. The hug was nice, the hug was necessary, but Tara should have known it would lead to something nicer, something more necessary

 _(essential)_

and should have stopped it. And though her romantic, love-stricken mind protested, and wallowed in the sensations that Willow gifted her with, her practical mind resisted. The truth was plain: Willow was going to have to kill her. Decapitate her. With the scythe. And Tara had no right to allow Willow to fall in love with her, knowing what her fate would be. Willow had just lost everyone she cared for, save her parents; how would she react when she realised she must turn murderer to save the world? It would be far easier (comparatively) to chop the head off a random person than a lover.

Could Tara do it? Be only a nurse? Could she deliberately keep from loving Willow, in order to spare her more heartache? She must. Oh, gods, she must!

For her love was so deep, so vast, so

 _(essential)_

that she would hide it, and profess to nothing more than friendship. No, not even friendship. Duty. Be a nurse, Tara.

Heal her, Tara.

Heal her fast. Heal her so fast she will have no time to fall in love with you. Heal her so fast she will not even know she was healed. Heal her so immensely fast that she can finally just do the necessary chopping of the neck and spare Tara her life of agony and pain.

Could she take so much, so fast? She'd never tried it before. She could. She could take it all, and be in agony, and give it to an animal, no, two animals by the end of the day. She could do it. She must do it.

Because she was in love. Surely that knowledge, that small measure of warmth would buffer her, protect her somewhat from the agonies to ensue? Even if that knowledge was hidden from everyone else?

Tara finally altered the course of her meditation, her mind grim. Love Willow by pretending she didn't love Willow. Heal Willow, and do it fast. And when Willow would come at her with the scythe, it wouldn't be all that bad. What better place to die than in the presence of your only, your true, your love?

So Tara thought of all that she had to accomplish before Willow's parents arrived tomorrow and, using one of her family's oldest mind techniques, she began to create little boxes to put the pain into. She delicately shied away from the mental prison she had created to house Caleb, a prison made of adamant, without doors or windows or cracks of any kind. She knew that the heaviness of the amulet of Thespia was about her neck, and she was comforted. She then fed her soul on the heaven-threads, though they were remarkably thinner than they had been earlier in the day, and she wondered if the heavenly magic of this place was being slowly depleted by her steady use of them.

She cast her mind back to the spell she had performed, her terrible fight with Caleb, and the presence of the triumvirate goddesses. Sensing she was still sore at Aranaea, and knowing Thespia had her plate full keeping Caleb out of her mind, Tara called out to Maia.

Am I doing the right thing?

 _Yes, oh yes._

When Tara finally emerged from her agonising meditation twenty minutes later, she noticed that Ethan had almost finished the clean up. He was placing the last of the candlesticks into the duffel bag as she carefully got to her feet; she heard little pops as her joints cracked.

"Well, the spell didn't take as long as I expected," Ethan said, pulling the zipper shut and hefting the bag to the closet near the front of the room.

Tara sat down on the edge of the couch and pulled on her shoes, her favourite bright red converse sneakers, tying them carefully in the rabbit ears as she was taught. "No, it didn't," she agreed.

"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" Ethan asked.

"Primarily wound work," Tara replied. "Plus some touch, physical, and music therapy and maybe some body work."

"Wound work," Ethan repeated. "You mean healing, right?"

Tara stood up and grasped Willow's clipboard. "Yes," she replied simply. How to explain her desperate plan to him? "Willow's parents are arriving tomorrow. I wanted to do as much healing today as possible, as much as I can stand. Lessen the suspicion, you know? Hopefully her parents will think that the initial doctor's reports were exaggerated. They don't have to know how bad it really was." Tara pulled out the x-ray of Willow's skull, which showed the hairline fracture. "Especially this."

Ethan surprised her then, by coming up to her and touching her face with his hand, lightly and swiftly tracing the three harsh gouges down her cheek. "Just… be careful, all right?" he said quietly. "Don't take too much, okay?"

"I plan on taking an animal very soon," Tara replied, looking at him, but her eyes were veiled. She understood his concern, but there would be no encouragement, no hope for him. And none for her. "In fact, would you have time today to run to the pet store and buy two rabbits?"

"Rabbits?" he said, his face constricting in distaste, and Tara wished she could take back her request.

"Never mind, I'll do it," she said, returning her attention to the clipboard.

"No, no, you won't have time. And it's necessary," Ethan responded, trying to smile. "I'll take care of it."

"I have a cage on the porch that you can put them in," Tara replied.

Ethan nodded, and exited the room. She looked around, seeing if he had missed any trace of the magic spell, but he had done a thorough job of cleaning up. She cleared away the sharps in the disposable container, and then returned to Willow's bedside. Tara wondered how long it would take for Willow to find her way out. And would she be shocked to find a disinterested nurse instead of an angel?

Willow's bed was still pulled out from the wall from the spell, so Tara pulled over her favourite stool and sat behind Willow's head. Tara planned on working on the worst injury first, her skull fracture. As she extended her fingers, they began to tingle with anticipation even before Tara touched Willow's hair. Tara merely smiled at her body's response to the gorgeous redhead

 _(who can't know you exist)_

and quite happily plunged her fingers back into Willow's hair. Tara could feel the painful thudding of her chest; the persistent ache behind her blackened eye

 _(it's not blackened, it's cajun. Cajun eye.)_

and wistfully wondered what she would feel like twenty minutes from now. She cast her memory back to the day she had healed Willow's abdomen wound, and promised herself that she would just have to go slower. She just couldn't bear the thought of taking all that pain, not all at once. Not until she could find little rooms for it in her mind.

With a certain measure of confidence in her mind, Tara tiptoed into Willow's skull, her consciousness finding the hairline fracture that had landed her girl into a coma. She calmly began to line up a procession of her own healthy cells, then sent them across the barrier, flowing along Willow's bones, rebuilding the wall. Tara didn't let them flood out as they were so clearly desperate to do

 _(every part of me wants to heal her)_

but rather plied them gently, almost like tetris blocks, taking her time, feeling the reciprocating pain seep into her like the cool touch of frost on a window pane. Tara filled all the little boxes that she had prepared in her meditation, then slowly stopped the parade of happy little cells, pulling her fingers away from Willow's head.

Tara was gasping, and her whole body shuddered, but not in pain; just the mental workout of holding herself back. She cracked a wide grin. She did it. She did exactly as much as she wanted to; her power didn't take over her, no rushing freight train of intensity, it was just enough. At long last, she was in control.

Tara sank down onto the ground again to complete another session of breathing and meditation, then arose carefully and began a session of touch therapy. She had always enjoyed touch therapy, and her exhausted mind was a little giddy at the thought of touching Willow.

 _(Be a nurse, Tara.)_

She moved to Willow's blanketed feet, then grasped Willow's big toes and held them gently for five minutes. As she did so, her eyes cast over Willow's battered body; her scraped and scratched face, the bite on her neck. She then fixated on the slow expanding and contracting of Willow's breath, her blanketed chest endlessly rising and falling. After five minutes at Willow's toes, Tara lifted Willow's legs slightly and put her palms under Willow's thighs, taking great care not to disturb the myriad of bandages covering the deep cuts and scrapes; testaments to Willow's entrapment in the overturned school bus.

Next Tara moved to the belly, and as tempted as Tara was to do this exercise on bare skin, she resisted, and laid one of her hands very softly on Willow's blanketed flat stomach and kept it there. She knew what lay underneath, the one thin pale scar, topped by a broken rib and collapsed lung, sword puncture wound, and the horrific scrape across her breast. How much could she take today?

Despite knowing how severely battered her girl was, the longer Tara left her hand on Willow's stomach, the greater a heat Tara felt rising within her, a slow flush, a ripple of goosebumps, and her earlier pain was forgotten as she concentrated harder and harder on thinking of Willow as her patient. Her patient. Her patient. Did it work?

 _(not really)_

Tara then took Willow's index fingers and held them, cooing softly over the scrapes on Willow's knuckles, and after five minutes she finally moved back to Willow's head. She cradled Willow's head in her hands, being mindful of the laceration on the one side, and then gently grasped her earlobes between thumb and finger. It was there, so dizzyingly close to Willow's perfect lips, that Tara began again to lose her objectivity. It didn't matter that Willow's face was as battle-scarred as her own, with her own laceration from temple to jawline and a scrape on her forehead. There was nothing she desired more than sweeping that slender body into her arms, and smothering that face with kisses, and…

Willow opened her eyes.

Tara recoiled a little in shock, but forced herself to remember that Willow's eyes had been open before. It didn't mean… and Tara rose from her stool so she could look into those eyes, not letting go of Willow's earlobes. When she looked, would there be something there?

And for a fleeting moment, there was. Tara could see the awareness behind Willow's eyes, a faint dawning of comprehension, as the shadow-curtain of coma was faintly lifted. Tara smiled, and then recoiled in shock, finally pulling her fingers away from Willow's ears. What would Willow be seeing when she looked at Tara? Not the clear-faced angel from her mind, but a nurse with bedraggled hair and a black eye and three hideous scars running down her face. Willow would be terrified!

But before Tara could back away, Willow's eyes closed again. Tara traced the outline of the scratches on her own face and desperately wished she could trust herself with another human, to take just enough of human life-force to fix her broken face. But after her disastrous encounter with Donny, that probably wasn't likely.

When Tara finally calmed herself, another hour passed as she meditated, worked on Willow's broken skull, and meditated again. Her body reeling with suppressed agony, Tara lurched to the supply closet to put on some music. She chose 'The Phantom of the Opera', and as the stirrings of the Overture filled the room Tara pulled a chair close to Willow's bed and sat down. She took Willow's non-IV'd hand in her own and lightly traced the lines of her palm before simply grasping it, shying away from the bruised knuckles. For the entire hour of the CD, Tara merely sat, holding Willow's hand, gaining more courage and strength to do a final session in Willow's mind. As the final sounds of the strings faded from the room, Tara felt she had regained enough energy to go back in.

Tara looked at the floor and grimaced, imagining her tired bones against the floor, and went to the supply closet and drew out another pillow. She fluffed it up a little before dropping it to the ground and pulled herself into her half-lotus. Ah, much better. Not quite a zafu, but close enough. For ten minutes she assembled more little rooms, more little boxes, more little prisons for Willow's pain, always skirting around Caleb's mental prison. Rising from her feet, Tara wobbled over to Willow's head and once again sunk into Willow's skull.

As always, Tara's giddy cells were not merely some random hick-town rodeo parade with cruddy candy and too many politicians, it was Mardi Gras, with people dancing and singing and playing jazz, whole streets swept up in the excitement and furor, and Tara had to hold herself mentally in check before she went all nuts with the healing and ended up vomiting on the floor like last time. Her happy conga line of cells didn't exactly embrace this censure, and Tara gasped as Willow's skull pain flooded into her head.

Control, Tara, control!

Breathing quickly, Tara finally felt the edges of the break fuse together, the hairline fracture gone, and she frantically pulled her fingers away from Willow. Drenched in a cold sweat, Tara started to get up, but collapsed on the floor. She lay there for long minutes, willing herself not to vomit, hunched in the fetal position, trembling with cold, pain, and exhaustion. In a moment of weakness, Tara wished she could just help herself to some morphine from the pharmacy, but

 _bad, bad Sue_

she knew it was wrong. She would be fired on the spot. As soon as she could get to her feet, extra-strength Tylenol would have to suffice.

Thus occupied on the floor, Tara didn't notice Willow's eyes open again, nor her fingers clench, nor her mouth move as if to say something before Willow fell back into the long sleep.

When Tara finally regained her wits, she noticed it was well past lunch time. Mentally berating herself for being so foolish, no healer could work on an empty stomach, she got up from the floor, dusted herself off, then checked Willow's vitals before heading out the door.

After a fortifying meal of tuna and spinach salad with a chocolate milkshake _(very healthy, Tara)_ , she returned to Willow's room, feeling much better. She still felt a great deal of pain, especially in her head, and her blackened eye felt like it was going to burst from her socket, but she still desperately wanted to take as much as she could, and count on the animals to fix her.

The next four hours were the most painful of Tara's life. She almost wished for the bone-searing pain of when she had healed the cut on Willow's abdomen, because she got a painkiller for it, but this slow seeping of agony was much worse. Before and after every bout of wound work she meditated, and her skin got grayer, and her eyes got duller, and her movements became slower.

She was killing herself.

 _(Ethan better buy three rabbits, will the shop owner suspect?)_

After healing Willow's broken rib, Tara got authorisation from Ethan to perform an x-ray, and she did a shot of Willow's head and her torso. Both fractures were mended, perfectly, as if the trauma had never happened.

Ethan had been concerned. "Take it easy, Tara," he had said. "You've got plenty of time, you don't have to do it all today."

"Gotta do as much before the parents come," she had mumbled back. As she retreated back, she could hear him say he had bought the rabbits for her, and he had put them on her porch.

By now Tara was floating on her pain, moving grimly from one scrape to the next, finally reaching a state where movement alone was good and rest was bad. Nothing could calm the fever raging within her breast, no meditation could box up the pain she took, and her very muscles trembled as she now pulled her cells across, yanking them across the barrier against their will. Nothing mattered, not the bruises that began to form on her chest, arms, and legs, not the crackles of white-hot lightning along her bones, not the little beads of blood weeping from her face and chest.

Only Willow. Willow whom could not love her, or know the furious depths that Tara trawled in order to save her.

Willow whose face was now clear, with a thin pale scar etching the side of her face where the laceration had been. Willow whose head and rib fractures were mended. The scars on Willow's body were testaments for Tara. They were headstones in Tara's graveyard of blighted hopes, and as each dreadful wound became a scar, Tara lost another of her most cherished dreams. Heal her, Tara, so she can kill you. No thoughts of eating ice cream on the boardwalk in the blistering summer heat, no more daydreaming of braiding her daughter's hair in the morning, no more fantasies of cuddling in the garden under the tree by the sharp-smelling tomatoes.

At six in the evening, Ethan came into Willow's room and watched Tara for a moment as she tottered to the blood pressure machine to take Willow's vitals. Her skin was grey, the consistency of playdoh, and that, plus the deadness in her eyes, worried him.

"Haven't you learned by now how to take care of yourself?" he asked, quickly standing by her and putting his arm around her trembling shoulders.

"Always had Donny," Tara softly mumbled.

"You're laying down. Now," he said, pulling her to the brown couch. Thank goodness Tara staying in her patient's rooms overnight was a common enough occurrence. If she fell asleep here and slept the whole night through, the night nurse wouldn't be surprised. Wouldn't even bat an eye.

Tara felt herself get tucked in with a spare blanket, the pillow soft against her pounding head. Ethan was asking if she wanted something for the pain, and she managed to nod. She lay there, awaiting his return, despairing that all the heaven-threads were gone. There was nothing for her to feed on, nothing until the rabbit. Suddenly his face was back in her bleary vision, and he swabbed her arm and said something about Toradol. The pinprick was welcome, yet it was many minutes before she passed into a muzzy sleep.


	16. Changing the Rules

Chapter Sixteen

Changing the Rules

And Tara dreamt.

Evening had fallen; softly, like the wisp of satin on skin, yet no stars could be seen through the opalescent glow of San Francisco's nightlife. Lamps lit up the wide-open plaza of the nursing campus, and the place teemed with students dressed for Halloween, going to one party or another, with plans on drinking gallons of alcohol and passing out before dawn. Tara's Halloween celebration would be far more subdued; she had, at Sue's endless whining, made a cascade of colours and sparks emerge within her doll's-eye crystal earlier that evening, and the two of them now made their way to the fraternity for the cursory Haunted House. They walked arm in arm, Sue swaying a little on her feet, laughing too easily and talking too much.

Attending the Haunted House had been Sue's idea, and she had begged and pleaded for Tara to join her. Sue seemed to need that endless college interaction, the energy of a thousand students; a need so different from introvert Tara. She sometimes wondered that they were together at all, but she did have her moments of happiness with Sue, though lately they were short and low in intensity. And as they walked arm in arm, Tara wished she could be happier. She also wished she could be anywhere but here.

The door to the frat house loomed, wreathed in fake spider silk, surrounded by caskets with grinning skeletons and lopsided jack o'lanterns. An inexplicable feeling of dread came over Tara then, especially as the wide door was opened by a tall man dressed as a preacher. Tara felt a chill run down her spine at the sight of him; his eyes were as dead and black as his hair, and though he wore a charming smile on his face, she could see an echo of cruelty within. "Welcome, ladies, welcome!" he beamed, practically pulling them through the door and into a strange looking house. There was a foyer, decorated as one would expect on Halloween, but the foyer led only onto a single long hallway, marked by dozens of doors, dimly lit by bulbs and also festooned with spider webbing.

As the costumed-preacher man touched her arm, Tara shivered away, sensing a dark and dangerous man behind the snake oil facade. The door shut behind her, and suddenly she was alone; Sue had been spirited away beyond her consciousness. "I will be your guide through this house of horror," the man continued, beckoning her to join him, though he did not touch her again. "You may see things that will shock and abhor you," he continued in a maddening calm, "but seeing as you're only dreaming, that only makes sense."

 _(I'm dreaming?)_

"You can only look, you can't touch," he said, reaching for the first doorknob. "Are you ready?"

Before Tara could answer, he swung open the door, and as she stood in the doorway, she saw into a memory.

Tara had pigtails in her hair, and she was proud of the looseness of her last baby tooth. It was summer, and scorching heat had led to the formation of furious thunderheads on the horizon; but the sun ran before the storm, lighting her and Donny as they played on their bikes in the farmyard. She sat astride her bike with the blue banana seat, staring at the low ramp in front of her like it was a coyote. Donny sat astride his own bike next to her, gripping his handlebars and getting ready for the jump. "Are you ready, Tara? Watch me!" he cried, then furiously pumped his legs and shot over the low jump, landing with a whoop and a scuff of dirt on the other side. "Now you do it!" he called.

Tara was scared, but she'd do almost anything for Donny, even brave this strange ramp. So she grit her teeth and biked as fast as she could for the ramp, pulling up a little as he had instructed when she hit it, and then whooped in joy as she landed safely. "High five, Tara!" her brother called, lifting up his hand to slap hers, and her heart swelled in pride.

Until his hand balled into a fist, and the sunlit field was gone, and gone too was the feeling of safety around him, for she was in the hospital in Los Angeles

 _(demon killer)_

and she had just fed off him and his offered life-force, and he was angry. And though she had three hideous wounds running down her one cheek, his fist came straight for that eye, and there was nothing she could do about it.

And Tara watched all this from the doorway, watched her younger selves as one may spy on the neighbours, watched with the hideously charming form of the preacher next to her. "You can't trust Donny," the costumed-preacher said. "He's always been jealous of your power. And when the time comes for him to finally choose between you and your father, who do you think he will choose?"

Tara at the doorway blinked, and watched Donny hit Tara in the bed, and then he ran away. "He will choose me," Tara said without much conviction.

The preacher openly laughed. "Oh, no," he chuckled. "Only truth here. The deepest truth. He will choose your father, Tara. He will gladly let you die." The preacher closed the door to that memory, and headed down the hallway. Tara stood still, not willing to go forward another step, beginning to realise that this was just a dream. She was only dreaming this. He had no real power here.

He made a curious beckoning gesture with his finger, and she felt herself irresistibly pulled down the hall toward him, her head brushing against the fake spider webbing. He opened another door and bade her look; and she was pulled, and she was forced, and she looked.

It was yet another summer day, and Tara's body had just begun to bloom into womanhood. She felt awkward and moody and curious; a dozen emotions raging through her young body and her mother wanted her to concentrate on learning magic. They were sitting together under the willow tree by the dugout, with Anna resting against the tree trunk, tired and sick-looking. Tara watching from the doorway knew this was before the dreaded 'C' word that would change the path of their lives forever, a path that led to dirt clods on a coffin.

Little Tara sat facing her mother, and extended her hand to her. They interlocked their fingers, then pressed their palms together. With a jolt, Tara realised she could see into her mother's mind, could see a shadow of the dreaded secret that would tear her life apart. And just as she could see into her mother, so her mother could see into her, and even as the two witches combined their magics to levitate an old discarded wagon wheel, Tara could feel her mother come upon her most intimate secret. Not what happened with her father

 _(hush, little Tara)_

for that was buried deep, but the other. Her first crush, and it wasn't with a guy.

The wagon wheel came crashing to the ground, and her mother's face was a portrait of shock and dismay. And it wasn't just shock, it was shame, and Tara abased herself to the dust, ripping her hand away from her mother's hand; she was crushed beneath her mother's stone of humiliation.

And the sky changed, and the years passed, and before Tara's eyes she watched her mother hollow and sicken with disease. Tara from the doorway beheld it, a morbid fast-forwarding, an echo of the goddess-Willow dream, and Tara wondered if all her life she would behold her mother's accelerated illness in the bowels of her mind, harbouring it like a parasite, never passing it through.

Until it was clods of dirt on a coffin, and whatever scant safety there had been in that hideous farmhouse was gone. And the knowledge that Aranaea had orchestrated this, had allowed this, burned in Tara's mind.

Next to her, the preacher seemed to seethe with an unholy fire, with raving delight at Tara's mental agony. "You can't trust your mother," he said softly, urbanely. "She never protected you. She allowed that filthy little goddess to ruin your life, allowed your brother to beat on you, and your classmates to pick on you, and your father to... Well, we won't mention that just now, will we?"

In the doorway that led to the rain-filled cemetery with too few mourners and too many vanished hopes, Tara hung her head. He was right. She couldn't trust her mother. She never could. Her mother should have protected her, should have fought for her, should have known

 _(Hush, little Tara)_

Without laying a hand on her, the preacher pulled Tara down the hallway to yet another door. As he opened it she saw her dining room table, scantily laid with food, and she was standing in the corner of the room, ready to serve her father more water, waiting for him to finish his meal so she could eat what was left. And then, after night had fallen, he would

 _(NO!)_

Tara slammed the door shut, feeling the thud reverberate through the house. The costumed preacher only looked at her maliciously, as if he already knew what lay beyond, what dread memory he was about to coax out of her and force her to eat, swallowing the poison again and again. "You could never trust your father," the man said. "You were a possession. A toy. A thing."

And Tara felt the words coat her like viscous tar, sadistic words that fed on her skin and invaded her, until yes, she was a possession, a plaything, a toy. It was all true, these words that came from this costumed man's mouth. Only truth. The deepest truth.

 _(Liar!)_

 _(You're dreaming, Tara! Wake up!)_

The next doorway showed her bedroom, where Tara finally lay asleep, addled with pain and the heaviness of hiding it, and Sue sat with a syringe in her arm and tears flowing down her cheeks. And as the morphine began to course through Sue's system, she reached out for Tara, with a questing hand that failed.

 _(bad sad Sue)_

"You can't trust your girlfriend. She never really loved you, and you knew it. Here you are, actually physically dying, and she didn't even know. Even after Donny made you take the cow, she didn't notice. She couldn't trust you, either, could she? She needed you. And you were oblivious. You had no idea what was going on. You shared your bed with this woman, and allowed her to poke her way to death's door, exquisite morphine in her veins. Even then it was someone else who intervened, wasn't it?"

And the preacher continued to compel her down the hallway, and the next door opening showed Ethan, and that startling moment when she discovered his mind. He was going to sabotage the spell. He was going to doom the world. He was going to remove her reason for existence, and he said he was going to do it for love, of all things. He never really loved her. He just loved the chase, and how hard she was to catch. He would tire of her, like everyone else did, and leave her, like everyone else did. Not unless she left him first.

And the preacher smiled as if he knew her thoughts, as if their blackness showed like veins on her face, like redness in her eyes. "You can't trust him," he said, goading her along. "If he was willing to do this, to kill the one you love, what else would he do?"

 _(wake wake wake)_

Compelled down the hall, shuddering at the spider webbing, at the boiling black aura of the preacher, Tara feared what she would see next. And as the preacher opened the door into her most precious memory, Tara balked, and would have run away but for the hooking gesture of the preacher that reeled her in like a fish.

 _(No, no, no, don't ruin this one for me please, don't)_

Tara watched from the doorway, watched as an outsider, watched as angel-Tara wrapped her arms about a tired, bloodied, red-haired girl. The angel's limbs trembled with suppressed emotion, and their hearts heaved in unison. Tara watched as Willow touched the angel's wings, then encircled her waist, and buried her face in the angel's throat.

And then, and then.

Those lips, and the knowledge of them, that they weren't merely nice appendages to a woman's face, but a portal to another world entirely. Those lips, a key to a lock, long forgotten. And the lock, once opened, could never again be closed, for it would be the work of all the gods to suppress again those hopes and dreams, the light of the future. Those lips, a passageway to earthly delights, a pathway lined with hidden treasures. And every step down this path, this path that started with those lips, would be cherished, and revered and

 _(essential)._

So Willow blindly offered those lips, and the fool within Tara took them, and used them for her own purposes. It had been so long, it had been _(never)_ and even as she took them, and sighed into them, and melted into them, she knew it was wrong. Was this how she would spare Willow heartache? She was taking without permission. Stealing these kisses. Gods, she was a monster.

 _(Save Willow, so Willow can save the world.)_

And Willow pulled violently away from the angel, and flames of rage emanated from her, and singed the angel's perfect gown, and blackened the tips of the feathers on the angel's wings, and blasted the angel's face until it was bloodied with three long scratches and a blackened eye. Willow's face distorted in clear hatred and derision, and she stepped back to the tree where the scythe was propped. She took that most dreadful weapon easily in her hands, hefted it with the precision of a born demon killer, and returned to the angel, who had fallen to her knees in despair.

"As if I could ever love you," Willow said in a low voice, and the scythe made a ringing sound as it passed through the air, and cut through the angel's neck so very easily. And as angel-Tara fell to the ground, a mist poured from her lopped head. "Finally I'm rid of that cloying, needy woman," Willow said as she set down the scythe on the grass once more, the blood drops sizzling through the grass. "She was harder to get rid of than bloodstains!" Even as she spoke, the mist effortlessly formed itself into the leering form of the costumed-preacher, who had vanished from Tara's side at the doorway to reappear here.

 _Wait, no, that was Caleb!_

 _(wake wake wake)_

And he was made flesh. Willow's face contorted in shock. "That was supposed to work," she said. "They said all I had to do to free the world of the First Evil was cut off her head with the scythe." As he approached Willow, he spoke to Tara at the doorway. "Used to be I was afraid of this woman," he said, and there was majestic grace in his stride, and Willow was frozen in the malevolence of his gaze. It was a leonine grace; he was a black panther, effortlessly stalking his prey, walking in a circle about her paralyzed form. "The most powerful witch in the world," he continued, stopping his circling just behind Willow, yet facing Tara in the doorway. "She could have stopped me. But not now. I now have power she couldn't dream of."

Before Tara's eyes, as she stood in the doorway, tears streaming down her face, Caleb took Willow's head in his hands and swiftly performed the action that the demon in the cemetery had threatened to try; Willow's neck bones crunched, and her windpipe crushed, and she fell lifeless to the ground, her red hair trailing like streams of blood. "Your power, Tara," he concluded, dusting off his hands. "So thanks for letting me live with you."

"NO!" Tara screamed, and she charged him. But there was no enrapture here, no triumvirate of goddesses to protect her, and Caleb simply stepped back to meet her. Just as Tara was about to hit him, her fist raised as Donny had taught her so terribly, Caleb lowered his hands and levelled one single blow to her chest, so powerful she felt her rib bones break, and she fell to the ground, blood flooding from her mouth.

Tara watched as Caleb approached the scythe, which was gleaming with angel-Tara's blood. "Used to be I couldn't touch this scythe," he continued in his damning amiable fashion. "How I lusted over it, but I daren't try to wield it. I was the physical embodiment of the First Evil, you know. All their power was within me. I was their link to the world, the world I should rule by their power. But then Buffy killed me with the scythe, thinking it would finish me. Now the Slayer didn't know this, but she hadn't the power to destroy me with the scythe. The witch did. If she had been the one to kill me with it, this all would have been over. Instead, my spirit was trapped within the scythe. And that foolish witch, she used the scythe to break the rules, she used the power of this scythe to activate all the potential Slayers, and diminished the scythe's power. And as she did so, I entered her, and made a home for myself in her mind, and imprisoned her within.

"And you thought to free her, you petty little whore. I'll admit I was surprised when you sucked me in. I only discovered the fringe benefits of my new habitation later. New power, Tara. Your power.

"And she thought to destroy me again with the scythe, by the shedding of innocent blood." Caleb lifted the scythe in his hands, and ran his tongue over the blood on the blade, and shivered in ecstasy. "Your blood, Tara." His white teeth gleamed in a malicious smile. "The scythe is diminished," he said softly, gratefully, even. "It has no power over me." He turned to face Tara lying in agony on the ground. "Now you are dead, the witch is dead, and I am flesh, and I will rule the world."

No.

 _(do not wake)_

Tara struggled to her feet. She needed no goddess, no otherworldly power. She was young, she was strong, she was love incarnate, and she would allow no such abomination. And she reached within, and found black regiments of pain throughout her body, and lined them up for the invasion. Just as she had found this power with the demon, so did Tara lurch toward the preacher, her eyes filling with bloodlust and revenge, her agony-armies screaming to be released. He stood there, oblivious of his peril, his eyes laughing, his face exulted. She made contact with the skin of his face, and through her fingers she hurled her armies of darkness.

They recoiled against her skin, hitting a vast blank wall. Confused, she attempted once more to send them through the barrier, this was easy, this was supposed to work! Yet the pain could not cross the impenetrable wall, and there was no door, no window, no key.

Caleb slowly grabbed her wrists and drew them away from his face. Locking his gaze on hers, he whispered, "The rules have changed, sweetheart." Contemptuously he shoved her to the ground, and she fell heavily, and shuddered in paroxysms of deep, deep sorrow.

And he wouldn't even kill her. As he strode away from her, Tara looked at the crumpled and blackened form of the angel on the ground, on the limp and lifeless form of her love, and on her own ruptured chest, and she sobbed. And the skies flowered flying beasts of madness, and the seas regurgitated demons, and the vampires walked under the light of the glowering sun, and they were not afraid. Caleb walked on, away from her, and all the hosts of hell followed in his wake.


	17. Flesh Prison

Chapter Seventeen

Flesh Prison

Wakefulness eluded Tara for a long time. She struggled in the blanket that Ethan had laid on her, her muscles twitching and jerking as she witnessed the land gone mad, seeing all the hordes of hell following Caleb, his minions slavering over the taste of new power on their tongues and exulting in the fire and brimstone of Caleb's wake. The sleep held her thickly, and it was long minutes before she finally was able to force her eyes open. She shut them again almost immediately; waking up had put her back in contact with her body, and her body was royally ticked off.

So Tara lay there with her eyes closed, and felt the spokes of the amulet poke her breasts, and smelled the faint antiseptic smell of the hospice, and listened to Willow's gentle breathing in the bed next to her. With her eyes shut she could still see the horrifying images of her dream, and she softly groaned aloud, knowing what she had to do next. It wasn't a mere dream, Tara, it was a prophecy, and it must be written down. Steeling herself against the pain that cracked through her like a shot from a rifle, Tara sat up and carefully rubbed her eyes. Her whole body throbbed in pain, yet she felt a little better for the sleep; her head was clear and her duty obvious.

Dim lights from the hallway softly illuminated the room, and Tara lit her watch to see what time it was, shocked to discover it was two in the morning. No matter. Do what must be done, first, then worry about the rest. Tara tucked her chocolate brown hair behind her ears and very slowly got up from the couch, shuffling a bit in her socks, going straight for the slender redhead sleeping so very delicately. Tara lifted her hand and ran her finger softly along the scar down Willow's cheek, then she carefully tucked Willow's hair away from her eyes. Some part of her yearned for Willow's eyes to open at her touch, but she knew it was unlikely. Coming out a coma took days, weeks even, and she couldn't force it.

Couldn't she? An amazing idea began to form in Tara's mind, but she skirted it, fearing it would pop like a bubble if she examined it too closely. She let it percolate back there, this tremendous idea that could bring Willow out of her coma, and sat stroking Willow's hair.

The dream, Tara. Tara sighed and shuffled to her purse, wincing at every step. She pulled out a dog-eared notepad and a pen, then sat herself again on the brown couch, only content if she could keep Willow constantly in her sight. Flipping to the first available page, she began to write. And though she didn't remember much about what had happened in the earlier portion of the dream, she remembered that she saw Donny and her mother and her father, and that Caleb had told her over and over that she wouldn't be able to trust them. But then later, with Willow, and Tara's pen faltered. She hated to write it down, to relive the horror of Willow's calculated cold betrayal, but could it only have been Caleb messing with her mind? Deep down, she knew she was Willow's angel, but that only meant she was here to perform a mission from the gods. She was an attendant, a guardian

 _(a nurse)_

and no more. It could be possible for Willow to betray her like that. How much of what Caleb had shown her was true prophecy, and how much was false?

Tara finally finished writing down her thoughts and impressions, her head throbbing and her entire body aching with a malaise so deep she felt nauseous. She got up again from the couch and took out the clipboard with Willow's vitals, surprised to see a note there from John, telling her to visit the nurse's station when she woke. She quickly cast her practiced eye down the list of vitals, satisfied that Willow was doing well. And as much as she knew she should go talk to John, all Tara wanted to do was curl up beside Willow's body, and rest her head on Willow's shoulder, and lay her hand on Willow's stomach, and fall asleep once more.

No, Tara. Never. Don't even think it. You have a job to do, so do it. Be a nurse, Tara. Only a nurse.

Tara shambled out of Willow's room like a zombie, stopping briefly at the washroom to use the facility and to splash water on her face, hoping it would help wake her. She eventually made her way to the nurse's station, where John was reading through some paperwork. "Hi, John," Tara said, smiling and then yawning.

John quirked a smile back at her. "So, you're up," he said. "Ethan left a note for you." He held out a folded piece of paper, and Tara took it and immediately turned back around to return to Willow's room. "Tara, are you all right?" she heard John ask, so she returned her gaze to his.

"I'm fine, really," she said.

"You look terrible," John admitted.

"Gee thanks," Tara quipped. "I'm still prettier than you."

John chuckled. "Take care of yourself, okay?" he asked, getting serious again. "I'm looking after Willow tonight. You should go home and sleep the rest of the night in your own bed, not that sorry excuse of a couch."

"I'll take it under advisement," Tara replied, smiling and yawning again. He waved his hand at her in dismissal, smiling back at her, and she started to walk down the hallway, opening the piece of paper.

"Tara," it said. "I don't know when you will wake up, so I've left this note with John. I want you to go home and take care of those rabbits, okay? And then I want you to take tomorrow off. I've got April coming in for you. Sheila and Ira Rosenberg got delayed in their travel, so they won't be coming until Wednesday. Under no circumstances are you to do any wound work tonight or tomorrow. Go home and rest, you've still got a long haul ahead of you. And I know what you're thinking. We'll phone you the minute Willow wakes up, if she happens to wake while you are gone." There was a big blank space, then the words, "GO HOME!" written next to a smiley face, with Ethan's loopy signature on the bottom.

Tara smiled through the rippling shocks of pain that continued to traumatize her system. While it was true that taking Willow's injury did not equal getting that same injury (or her own head and rib would now be broken), the same injury nestled somewhere deeper inside her, in her organs, in her blood, even in her bones. And she could definitely feel it now, and knew that there was dried blood on the amulet of Thespia from her weeping

 _(demon claws, demon tears)_

chest wound. So, yes, Ethan sir, it will be home, rabbits, bath, and bed.

But she couldn't leave without spending a little more time with Willow, so she sat at her girl's bedside and held her hand. Willow's knuckles were still abraded; Tara hadn't healed them, not with other and far worse injuries to deal with. And though Tara knew she shouldn't, she couldn't get into this habit because Willow was about to wake, and she was a nurse, only a nurse, she still took that hand gently in her palm, and touched the scrapes lightly with her softly questing fingers, and brought it up to her lips and kissed it, allowing a few tears to fall. The romantic in her would have had Willow wake at that point, open her eyes in undying devotion, and softly verbalize her gratitude for her nurse, but that didn't happen. That was Hollywood, not real life. No Hollywood here.

Tara finally left the hospice near three in the morning. The sky was black, the air was clean with a refreshing tang of ocean and pine, and Tara breathed slowly and deeply of it, careful of her wounded chest. The streets of Los Osos were asleep, and she encountered no one else on the roads on the short drive home.

Just as Ethan had promised, Tara found the two rabbits in a cage in her covered porch; they were both large and sleeping, but woke as Tara jostled the cage to bring them into the house. As she took the cage in her hands she was filled with an immeasurable amount of pride; she was finally growing up. She was taking an animal without Donny forcing her to. Swift on the heels of that realization came another: it was because of Willow. She would never have grown like this had it not been for her. That comatose redhead in the hospice had turned Tara's life upside down, had brought her into new powers, new depths of love and anguish, and she wasn't even awake to know it. And when she was awake? She still wouldn't know. Tara would be only a nurse to her. A nurse. A nurse. Nothing else.

And it was enough. Just barely enough for Tara to have given up her own hopes and dreams. Her own life. The words of Aranaea always came back to haunt her, _"My dearest and most precious child, this time you will be the rabbit, you are my sacrifice to save the world. You are the lamb."_

Tara unlocked the door and pushed herself and the cage through. She may have to be a nurse at the hospice, but here in her comfortable home she could fantasize all she wanted, and she mentally vowed to do so during her bath. It would be torture, to dream of unattainable things

 _(like Willow joining me in the bathtub)_

but it would be better than the alternative, which was no dreaming at all.

Tara set down the cage by her abraded paisley chair and shuffled into the kitchen for a cup of instant soup. Once she had the steaming concoction in hand, she returned to the chair and sat down heavily. Blowing on her soup to cool it, she set it aside on a table and opened the cage, drawing out a rabbit.

The rabbit struggled briefly in her soft yet firm grip, then settled down as Tara laid it on her lap and stroked it lovingly. It had soft grey fur and inquisitive eyes, and it's claws were untrimmed and sharp. It laid it's ears down along the length of its back and seemed to enjoy Tara's caresses. And for a moment, she couldn't do it, she couldn't murder this rabbit, no matter how gently, how carefully. So she forced herself to think of Willow, of her duty to heal her, her injunction by the gods themselves, it must be done and only she could do it. The rabbit, this poor defenceless rabbit, had to be the sacrifice. For now.

So Tara closed her eyes, and breathed softly, and felt the fur against her fingers. She formed in her mind her own image; that of an apple tree, heavily laden with luscious fruit, free for the taking (though no one had taken any yet), glorious above all other trees. With a little push, she sent it deeper inside herself.

 _Oh my god_

It was just like watching the horrific sped-up version of her mother's wilting, seeing her apple tree get blasted by disease, the leaves turning from green to twisted black, endlessly falling to litter the ground with vileness. Even the bark on her tree turned ashen grey under the ferocious onslaught of Willow's pain. Even as Tara saw it her spirit wilted as well, and she desperately forced back a wave of despair. The rabbit, that's why I have the rabbit. Only once in her life had it ever been like this, the night she had taken the cow at Donny's insistence, and she wondered if even two rabbits would be enough.

Tara steeled herself. If not, she'd get another cow. A horse. A buffalo. A demon. Whatever it took.

 _(It's all for Willow)_

Tara sharply inhaled, then exhaled as she drew out the thin streams of tar, the dread purple stain, sending them swiftly to the barrier of her fingers. Then, a little push, a little poke, and...

and...

There was a wall.

And there was a jubilant whisper in her mind. "I am the First," the voice said, and she recognized it, and was sore afraid. And the fear threatened to crumble her, to enslave her, but she only thought of Willow, of Willow's warm breath against her cheek, of her hands that had clutched her so desperately, of her lips...

So Tara pushed harder, forming the streams of tar into battering rams, and with them she pummelled the vast blank wall of her fingers. Still nothing. So she visualized deeper, and formed the pain, the purple, into the vast battering ram known as Grond, with sleek wolf's head and fire in it's maw, built for the destruction of Gondor. And with it she assaulted the wall once more, yet her efforts did not leave a single mark.

This was no mere wall. It was a blockade of blackness, a seamless endless barrier built of ravaging hate and anchored in despair. It was immovable, it was permanent, and it encompassed Tara completely.

And her flesh was her prison, and she let forth a terrible howl of despair, and ripped her fingers from the rabbit, and dissolved into fresh tears of anguish and hysteria. Tara remembered her dream then, and the malevolent glee Caleb had in his voice when he had said, "The rules have changed, sweetheart."

He knew.

Gods, he knew!

 _(What else in that dream is true?)_

With trembling hands, Tara shoved the still-breathing, thriving body of the rabbit back into the cage. Fresh horror struck her

 _(I'm dying)_

and she retched. Stumbling to the phone, she disregarded the fact it was just past three in the morning and dialled Ethan's number.

His voice was thick with sleep, but he sounded alert. "What's wrong, Tara?" he asked.

She cried for long minutes, hiccupping and gasping in her grief, knowing that Ethan was only getting more and more concerned, but unable to stop. Finally she simply asked, "Ethan, can you come? Please?"

"Are you home?"

"Yes."

"I'll be right there." She heard the phone click, but she held the receiver in her cold hands until the phone began beeping discordantly, and only then remembered to hang it back up. Tara shuffled back to her living room, looking at the books, the mini-lights, her posters, anything to keep her from thinking of the awful consequences. Yet the true horror of her situation kept crawling in her mouth like bile, and with a fresh bout of sobbing she recalled her earlier prophetic dream when she first met Willow as a goddess. In the dream she had taken the tar from Willow, the dreaded purple stain, had satiated herself to death on it.

And it was payment enough for Tara, to see her beloved once again at peace, even though she herself was inundated with the dreaded purple stain, and could verily feel the weakening beats of her steadfast heart.

Hadn't her mother warned, "For the love of this woman, you will surely die?"

 _("You took too much, Tara," her mother had said. "You took it, and you can't give it away.")_

Tara had the door open as soon as she saw his truck come down her street some fifteen minutes later. He bustled into her home, shutting the door behind him, veered around the rabbit cage and drew his arm about her trembling shoulders. She shuddered against him, burrowing into the warm bulk of his body and allowed him to usher her back into the living room. "Tara, please tell me," he said, a note of desperation in his voice.

"I couldn't," she started, then sobbed some more, forcing him to wait. "I couldn't use the rabbit," she finally said, her eyes shut, leaning against him.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "It didn't work? The magic didn't work?" Tara nodded against his shoulder. "What do we do?" he asked, that note of desperation in his voice becoming a symphony of worry.

Tara looked up at him, at his honest and earnest face, and she willed herself to say the next words. "Can I try to take some of your life-force, Ethan? To heal my face? I need to know how far this curse extends."

She was close enough to see his Adam's apple bob as he gulped once, a little nervously, but then he grinned falsely and said, "Of course. What do I do?"

"Just sit there," she said, lifting her hands to touch his face. She closed her eyes and sunk into Ethan's body, and it reminded her of Donny, and she was filled with fear. What if she took too much? What if Ethan left her, too? Could she really trust him? She shook her concerns away, lined up a procession of his cells, and brought them to the barrier. Tara took a deep breath, then pulled.

And the procession dashed itself against

 _(the first)_

the adamant wall.

Tara removed her fingers. It was over. Ethan looked into her eyes, and she could see his love there. It was obvious, just as obvious as the tiny gold flecks in his blue irises. She could give him only despair. It seemed that's what she was good at. "Is there anything else you could try?" he asked. "Another animal, a demon even, like what happened in Los Angeles?"

Tara was beyond tears, beyond hope. "Thank you for coming," she said quietly, with a clear tone of dismissal.

"Tara, I..."

"Please go. I'll talk to you soon, I promise. I just have to figure things out," she said, closing her reddened eyes. He nodded, got up from the creaky couch, and silently left her.

In the darkness without, and the darkness within, Tara sat.

"Goddess?" she said aloud.

Nothing.

"Aranaea? Thespia? Maia?"

Nothing.

Sob.

"God of my father?" she croaked. "Can anyone hear me?"

Nothing.

"That's ridiculous," Tara shouted aloud, her voice trembling in her fury. "I just talked to you yesterday, after I defeated Caleb. I talked, and you answered!"

But even as she finished saying the words, she had her answer. Caleb was just settling in back then. In the many hours in between then and now, he had plenty of time to wreak his mischief on her mind, to build that adamant wall. A prison, indeed. She should have known. Willow had been imprisoned just like this. Shouldn't Tara be grateful she's at least conscious? Alive, and living? Not enduring whatever nightmares Caleb had inflicted on defenceless Willow? Yes, Tara, be grateful. You're not dead.

Not yet, at least. With the kind of pain you've been taking, who knows what will happen next?

 _("You took too much, Tara," her mother said. "You took it, and you can't give it away.")_

Tara thought back to the early hours of Sunday morning, when she had returned from Los Angeles and had gone straight to Willow's room. Now, as the same grief rolled through her, she once again asked, her voice trembling in fright and pain, "Willow, can you save me?"

Thousands of miles away, nestled in the green cultivated vales of Devon, England, a coven of witches sat in council. And one of them lifted her head, breaking their vision of Tara's anguish, and tears were streaming down her face. As Althanea recalled Tara's frustration, of hitting the vast blank wall, she was filled with resolve. "We shall do whatever we must to fix this," she vowed, and drew comfort from the murmurings of the others.

"What will you do?" a young witch asked.

"I believe I'm going to America."


	18. Althanea

Chapter Eighteen

Althanea

Tara sat on a beat-up wicker chair on her back porch and stared unseeing at her garden. It was mid-afternoon and ferociously hot for early summer; here in the privacy of her back yard she wore a tank top, knowing that the curved demon-inflicted wounds would be visible above the neckline. At the moment, she didn't care. Neither did she care that the bare legs beneath her shorts were white; maybe other people had time for frivolous things like tanning, but she was busy saving the world. There was a paperback book on the little table that she wasn't reading, and ice cubes softly melted in her glass of lemonade.

Her earlier frenzy had passed, she had slept at last, and upon waking a sort of stoic calm had ensued. For now it was enough for her to sit in the beating heat of the sun, to close her eyes and see the warm pinkness of her eyelids, to listen to the sounds of her neighbourhood. All the while pain rippled through her, but she ignored it. With her eyes closed she visualized the garden of Peter's peace, and wistfully wished that her own backyard garden could reflect even a tenth of that beauty. When she finally opened her eyes again to look at her drooping plants, dying of heat and neglect, she felt a twinge of guilt that she quickly suppressed.

Saving the world, Tara.

 _(In all your running around to save the world, have you ever discovered how to save yourself?)_

This life of work, and toil, and pain, and agony, it was all she knew. And it had been deliberately inflicted on her, to give her a capacity for healing beyond all mere mortals. She'd always been able to give the pain away, until now. There was always an outlet, a flood gate. But now she was trapped within a prison of flesh, doomed to die in torment and anguish, with no hope of release. She was wrapped in iron chains, binding her tightly; prey in a spider's cocoon. That knowledge burned within her, yet all she could do was sit in the fierce sunlight and softly dream.

And she found beauty within.

Because this fiercely pounding sun was not her true source of light, her source was far more close, more personal. It was a love light

 _(Willow-light)_

and she burrowed into it, not needing to be the strong one, the rock, the foundation. Within the Willow-light, she could be embraced, she could be protected, she could be the soft one. Even here, miles away from the source of that light, Tara felt it burning within her, softening the bite of pain, calming her embittered soul. Tara recalled the deaths of her previous clients, how their soulfire would wound her, exacerbating the darkness within her tormented soul, until she ached to join them in the release. That was the miracle of Willow-light, that it calmed and healed, and Tara felt forever the connection between herself and her girl, the rubber band that would always draw her back. Long ago she had desired her patient's tempestuous endings, their glorious finish, the sweetness of death. But that was in a past that didn't have a Willow in it.

 _(Now I'm bathed in light)_

Tara smiled with her eyes closed and began to carefully reconstruct the false future that Aranaea had shown her over the weekend. With a little effort, she could again smell the tang of the tomato plants, feel the silkiness of Willow's hair entwined in her fingers, hear a discordant buzz...

Her eyes flew open. That was the doorbell.

She clumsily got to her feet and lurched through the house, her legs prickling as they woke from sleep. She opened the front door, not remembering that her clothing was a little too revealing for strangers until she saw the eyes of the woman standing on her doorstep widen. "So that's what the demon did to you," this strange woman said, clucking in disapproval, her eyes crinkling in motherly worry.

Tara's jaw dropped, not merely at the words of the stranger

 _(how on earth does she know that?)_

but at the stranger herself. The woman looked simultaneously old and young; her hair was graying, yet her skin and body were youthful. It wasn't so much the outward appearance of the woman that had shocked Tara, it was her aura, which coruscated like sunlight through leaves. There was power in this woman, immense power like unto Willow's, and Tara reeled back a little from her. "Tara Maclay?" the woman asked, as the silence lengthened between them, as if worried she had accused the wrong girl of being demon-bait.

Tara nodded, too bemused to speak.

"I'm Althanea. May I come in?" Tara nodded again and pulled the door open for her new guest. Althanea bustled into Tara's home, dragging a small suitcase behind her. She was slender and willowy, with bouncy caramel-coloured hair and brown eyes that seemed to see instantly the truth of all things. Those delightful eyes quickly took in Tara's surroundings, the seventies-style overstuffed paisley furniture, the mini-lights bedecked everywhere, and ornaments both magical and secular.

Tara finally found her manners. "What can I do for you, Althanea?" she asked.

"Actually, dear, it's what I can do for you," Althanea responded, setting down her suitcase and purse. "But I could start with a cold drink, if you wouldn't mind."

"You're British," Tara said, her voice filled with wonder, and her mind with speculation. The skin on her ruined face prickled as she recalled Angel's words in the cemetery, his explanation of the British Watcher's Council and how he simultaneously loathed them yet still worked with them. "Are you from the Watcher's Council?"

"You don't miss a trick, do you?" Althanea laughed. "No, dear, I'm not on the Council. Bunch of semi-useless fuddy-duddies they are. Or were, I guess is the term," and her face fell a little. "They suffered tremendous casualties in the recent war."

Tara beckoned for Althanea to follow her into the kitchen and waved at her to sit at a stool by the kitchen island. "The war against the First, right?" Tara said, her mind whirling. How much stranger could her life get?

"Yes," Althanea replied. Tara handed her a tall glass of lemonade and leaned against the counter to look more closely at her guest. Althanea radiated confidence and purpose, and ever she continued to pulse with a green light. And even if it was rude, Tara had to know what her source of light was.

"Which goddess do you follow?" Tara asked.

If she was surprised at the question, Althanea didn't show it. "The goddess Hecate," she simply replied. Tara nodded. It made sense that this powerful witch would be a supplicant of Hecate, the goddess of sorcery. Hecate was also the patroness of the Wiccan arts, and widely followed by the henna-stamped college girl crowd. The more worshippers, the greater the power, and it was obvious how much of that power Hecate had bestowed upon this lone woman.

"What are you doing here?" Tara asked when the silence became thick. The older witch continued to gaze at her in a singularly disarming manner, seemingly probing the depths of Tara's mind. Never before had she been studied so closely, and she found the experience decidedly uncomfortable.

"May we speak outside?" the witch asked. "I've just spent far too many hours on a plane."

"Of course," Tara replied, leading the way out to her sun-browned back porch, suddenly wishing that she had mown the grass or weeded the garden. Althanea didn't seem to care overly much; she pulled up another rickety wicker chair and sat down easily, gracefully.

Tara sat and waited for the witch to speak, her mind endlessly circling in speculation. "I've come with a message from the gods," Althanea said, looking at Tara carefully, swirling the ice cubes in her glass of lemonade. "We have been following your progress by vision, watching as you took in Willow Rosenberg, watching as you prepared the spell to enter her mind. We fought with you as you challenged Caleb, and we rejoiced with you when you defeated him. And then we mourned, Tara, for it became obvious that you had somewhere been misled."

Tara had been following the words closely, an expression of sheer wonder on her face, wonder which turned to concern. "Misled?" she repeated.

"We know that you can no longer hear the voice of the goddess. We know there is a wall. That is why I have come, to give you this most important message, a message that will heal your courageous heart." Althanea said this quietly, with utmost compassion, and Tara felt herself trembling under the force of this woman's love. Insight illuminated her mind; so this is what her clients felt in her presence, this same force of unconditional love.

"Save Willow, so Willow can save the world," the witch said, and Tara opened her mouth as if to say something

 _(I've already memorised that line)_

but the witch continued. "Not by healing her, but by loving her."

Tara's jaw dropped. Again.

Calmly, Althanea drained her glass of lemonade, then casually smashed the glass on the bricks of Tara's patio. Tara recoiled a little; it isn't often a stranger waltzes into your home and starts smashing your things. But then Tara remembered her first visit with the goddess Aranaea, how calmly the little goddess had broken the chalice, and repaired it again. Tara watched Althanea in rapt attention as the witch picked up a shard of glass and proceeded to slit her forearm with it.

"Hey!" Tara cried out. "Wh-what are you..."

"All witches of a certain power have access to the energies of the universe. We can call upon the element of Earth to heal ourselves." Under Tara's bewildered gaze, Althanea proceeded to heal the gash in her arm, a perfect reflection of Tara's own healing work, as the wound thinned, then closed altogether, leaving only a thin smear of blood. "Willow has used this power before, to heal herself."

Anger. All her efforts were in vain. Again. Tara seethed at the goddess, and her voice was choked in fury as she asked, "Why didn't Aranaea tell me this?"

Meanwhile, Althanea had waved at the broken glass and it had reformed perfectly in the palm of her hand. Althanea rolled her eyes in consternation. "Aranaea hasn't spent a lot of time among humans," she started to explain. "She'd actually been in exile for a very long time until Willow called upon her for help. She honestly doesn't have any understanding of human limitations. She didn't understand why you balked so furiously over the weekend. She thought that you were being deliberately obstinate in refusing to love Willow, for she believed she had made herself clear."

"I think I hate her," Tara said through clenched teeth.

"You can love or hate her, but she does love you, and she was astounded by the amount of healing you did yesterday. But since the wall was up, she couldn't talk to you, so she contacted her sister, my goddess Hecate, and implored her to send me to talk to you."

"Wait, you said you saw all this yesterday?"

"Yes, why?"

"How did you get here so fast?" Tara asked, mentally trying to review possible flight plans, grateful for something meaningless to think about while her mind whirled with yet another betrayal of her capricious little goddess.

"That's the joy of traveling westward," Althanea replied with a hint of sarcasm. "I spent thirteen hours on the plane, but only three hours passed with the change in time zones. But that's beside the point. I'm here now, to tell you what my goddess told me."

"Why didn't Aranaea talk to me sooner, like before the wall went up?" Tara asked, her voice bitter. "Why did she allow yesterday to happen?"

"We didn't know you'd be trying to do it all in one day," Althanea said, looking carefully at Tara. "What were you afraid of?"

"You say I'm supposed to love her," Tara said quietly. "Yet she's supposed to kill me with the scythe? It would ruin her. She's already lost everyone she's ever loved."

"Why don't you let Willow make that decision?" Althanea responded, smiling slightly to take the bite out of her words. Tara's blood ran cold. "Offer your love, and see where it takes you. Yes, you will eventually die, but wouldn't you rather die with a thousand memories of love to balance the thousands of hate?"

Tara's throat clenched. Yes, yes, that is what she wished. Wait. Tara finally caught the word Althanea used. Eventually. "Eventually? What do you mean, eventually?"

Althanea's face fell. "Ah, the goddess failed to explain that as well, didn't she? She's a right little sod at times."

"You mean to tell me that, not only do I get to love Willow, I get to live as well? For a while at least? She doesn't have to kill me right away?"

Althanea pointed to the heavy chain hanging from Tara's neck. Tara usually chose to wear the heavy sun-symbol inside her clothing, close to her skin, just for safety's sake, and today was no different. "The preacher is good and chained. There he will remain, until the spell decays or if you sicken or if you die accidentally. That's another reason Aranaea showed you the vision she did, of a future with Willow that may be possible for you." Tara blushed to think that Althanea had seen the contents of the vision. Althanea noticed it, and hurriedly added, "Heavens no, I didn't see the vision. I was just told it showed a possibility of a future with you and Willow."

"Why then did all that horrible stuff happen to me?" she croaked. "I thought it was to deepen my capacity to heal."

"And it did, didn't it?" the witch replied. "Your healing power is directly linked to love, which is why you had so much trouble finding your limits in nursing school. The greater your suffering, the greater your capacity for love, the greater the reward." Tara shivered as the words cascaded over her. Althanea leaned over to her, capturing her eyes. "It is by loving Willow that you will save the world. Her physical body is broken, but it will heal. But you are right; she has lost everything. And without you, the love that only you can offer, this world will mean nothing to her, and she'll allow it to fall into cataclysm."

Tara was silent as the terrified knot of her beleaguered soul began to dissolve under the truth of Althanea's words. "No matter what I do," she finally said, "I am doomed. I can't give the pain away any more. I don't know how much you know about true healing, but this wall is bad. If I can't absorb the pain myself somehow," and she let forth a watery little hiccup of agony, as her very bones reminded her of how much she had taken, "it will fester in me. I may die, and what will Willow do then?"

Althanea nodded. "It's true, that the current path you are on leads inexplicably to your death at Willow's hands. If you get sick from this, sick unto death, she will have to kill you earlier than we thought." Then the witch smiled, a deep and radiant smile, and continued, "I wouldn't worry too much. Willow has always found a way to break the rules. You wouldn't believe how many times this whole world stood upon the brink of annihilation and the Scooby Gang has always averted it. And every single time their cause would have failed but for Willow. She's stronger than you think, and she has this annoying capability of circumventing the apocalypse, always by breaking the rules, and always to the dismay of the Watcher's Council." The witch chuckled. "How many sleepless nights she had given them."

And the Willow-light sustained Tara, and gave her new hope, and Tara dared lift her face to the radiant witch beside her. "I can love her?"

"It's what you were born to do," the witch replied. "Now go do it."

Tara looked down at her ravaged chest. "I better get changed, first." She began to get up, feeling a lightness pervade her, soothing the ravagings of pain within, but was stopped by Althanea's hand.

"May I try?" Althanea asked softly, pointing delicately to Tara's clawed face. "It probably won't work, but I'd like to try."

"Certainly," Tara replied, her heart leaping in hope. Surely a witch as powerful as Althanea could overcome the barrier. Althanea brought her chair closer to Tara, then both witches closed their eyes as Althanea put her cool fingers on Tara's face. For long moments Tara waited, but felt nothing but the unending agony in her muscles and bones.

"I'm sorry," Althanea said, finally pulling away. "I searched every part of the wall I could, but there is no crack, no crevice." Reacting to Tara's stricken gaze, the witch continued, "But I still wouldn't lose hope. Not when there's a Willow around to change the rules."

Althanea's absolute confidence in Willow buoyed Tara's flagging spirits, and her heart continued to beat in a crazy rhythm of possibility. But having those cool fingers on her demon-ravaged face reminded her of something else Angel had said that night in the cemetery. "Do you know what happened to Faith?" she suddenly asked.

Althanea looked at her closely, and Tara just knew that Althanea was debating with herself whether to break oath and tell Tara the truth or not. "You don't have to say," Tara continued, but Althanea apparently made up her mind.

"She was rescued by an Watcher's Council extraction team and taken to the healer in Romania. Willow had to come to you, for various reasons, and so we sent her to Irina."

"She's safe?" Tara asked, feeling a wave of sympathy for this unknown girl.

"Yes," Althanea smiled. "She's safe." She sat up straighter in her seat, and returned her unbroken glass to the little patio table. "Now, shall we go to the hospice? I sense some witchery's afoot."

"Let me get changed," Tara said, "And we'll go to the hospice to see her."

Tara left Althanea on her porch while she quickly changed into blue jeans and a V-neck blouse, her heart singing all the while. In fifteen minutes she and Althanea were pulling into the parking lot of the hospice. Tara shut off the engine, and a look of concern crossed her face.

"What is it?" Althanea asked.

"I'm not supposed to be coming in today," Tara replied. "If my supervisor sees me, he'll likely send me home." At Althanea's questioning smile, Tara elaborated, "He's a little protective of me."

"Do you know the magic to make yourself unremarkable?" Althanea asked. Tara nodded, her face brightening. "What do you plan on doing in there?" Althanea asked.

"I'm going to mindsurf in, and bring her out of her coma," Tara replied with a surge of confidence. And though she couldn't hear the voice of the goddess agreeing with her, she did feel warmth pervade through her ravaged chest, easing the pain in her lower back, scolding the mean little gremlin torturer.

"Let me cast the spell for both of us then," Althanea said. "You'll need all your strength for... what do you call it? Mindsurfing?"

Tara caught the tiny twinge of jealousy in the older witch's voice. "You don't mindsurf?" Tara asked.

"I don't have the ability, no," Althanea admitted. "Few people do. Only those people who have had access to Aranaea during her exile."

They got out of the car and Althanea performed her chant, gesturing a circle about the both of them, and they entered the hospice. The spell worked perfectly; they didn't have to avoid the other people in the hallway, everyone just gave them a wide berth unconsciously. Soon they entered Willow's room, walking right past April, who didn't even notice them at all. April was busy reading to sleeping Willow, and the afternoon sun was setting her patient aglow. Just seeing her again, with her purpose finally full and clear, Tara's heart hiccupped in her chest, and her throat tightened in sweet agony.

"So this is Willow Rosenberg, in the flesh," Althanea said, standing by Willow's bed. April's voice didn't even stop; she continued reading aloud.

"You've never met her?" Tara asked, surprised.

"No, she's never come to England, and my other trips to America didn't include the Hellmouth as a vacation spot. We spoke often over the phone this past year, as my coven discovered in vision the other potential slayers and sent them to Sunnydale."

"Here she is," Tara said, her soul blooming, unfolding, widening. And because she couldn't just merely stand there beside her love, Tara took Willow's hand in her own, and caressed it, her throat thick with emotion. April didn't even glance at the movement.

"How will you do it?" Althanea asked curiously, standing at the foot of the bed and holding Willow's blanketed feet tenderly, a gesture that caused a short burst of jealousy within Tara.

"I sit behind her and put my hands on her head. Then I just, it's hard to explain, I just sink in." Tara looked sharply at Althanea. "It's a good thing you're unremarkable at present. I'd have a hard time explaining why you are here. This is an immediate family only kind of situation." Althanea grinned at her, and Tara continued, "I'm not sure how long it will take. Will you stay with me, keep the spell on me?" Her voice quavered a bit, wondering if Althanea was going to leave her.

"Of course, dear heart," the older witch replied. "Now go find your girl."

Tara pulled over her favourite stool, momentarily alarmed when April got up and left the room, but quickly calmed herself again. Before she sat down she stood by Willow's head, traced Willow's scar

 _(no longer a headstone of lost hope, but a monument of devotion)_

and whispered, "I'll bring you to life." Revelling in her near-invisibility, Tara then dared to swiftly kiss Willow on her chapped lips. The kiss, though brief, nearly brought Tara to her knees, her whole being melting in Willow's soulfire. She sat behind Willow's head, ran her fingers luxuriously through her hair, suddenly glad she had taken away the horrific bristly laceration on Willow's head.

And echoing the words she had spoken less than a week before, Tara whispered, "Dearest heart, let me in."

As Tara glimpsed the sadistic playground Caleb made of Willow's Sunnydale, she beheld what her courageous girl had been doing since her freedom from his imprisonment and choked back a storm of tears. "Oh, my darling," she whispered.


	19. Yom Dmaot (Day of Tears)

Chapter Nineteen

Yom Dmaot (Day of Tears)

It was night again in Willow's tortured mind. She was standing in the doorway to her consciousness that she had so painstakingly created in the hours since the angel's departure, and she had created it in the very spot she had been enfolded in the angel's arms. In memory of the divine beauty of the angel, Willow's doorway was no mere closet door (no dirty laundry here), but an exquisitely crafted archway of marble and gilded gold, entwined with leaves and softly blooming night-flowers. After the moment of its creation, Willow had straightened her clothing and opened the doors, only to find the same unremitting landscape of night-ridden Sunnydale on the other side. Hours of intense concentration had now brought her to this point; she stood on the cusp of the doorway, and through it she could see an unfamiliar space, bright beyond imagining.

Willow knew that all she had to do was step through that brilliant door to be reunited with her body, but something held her back. Suddenly a face swam into her view, and Willow gasped. Those eyes, those bellflower in springtime eyes, eyes of crystal mountain lakes, eyes of jewelled loveliness, she recognized those exquisite eyes. They were undeniably the eyes of the angel, yet what was this? There were leaden weights in them, millstones of pain and private despair, and one was surrounded by the remnants of a black eye, and that clear and wondrous face was hideously marred by three long slashes extending from eyebrow to ear and down to the mouth.

Willow almost stepped through the doorway then, so she could cup that face in her hands, to kiss it and make it better. Yet there was an anchor on her soul, for all of Sunnydale howled behind her, and the groanings and moanings of the unburied dead were a wind on her face, dashing her hot tears away. Could she sacrifice these horribly familiar streets of Sunnydale for that uncertain future beyond the doorway? Could she just leave the moldering bodies of her friends, abandon them in the dust of Caleb's ruination, even for the sake of those crystal blue eyes? No, not yet. So Willow grasped the ornate handles of the doors, and softly, regretfully, pulled them shut, aching at the last glance of anguish clearly written on the angel's face as she did so.

And Willow stood then, with the ghostly wind whipping her crimson hair, her eyes closed against the onslaught of voices in the wind, her heart burning in torment. She lifted her flawless face up to the night sky, her throat creamy in the evanescent light of the softly glowing doorway, tears glistening on her cheeks. For long moments she stood there, torn. Part of her wished to go through that doorway and leave this horror far behind, buried in the black hole of the coma, a malignant blackness forgotten if unseen. But a stronger part remembered the outside world, and was overwhelmed by its potential emptiness. She knew she had escaped the implosion; Faith had rescued her and a few other potentials. Could that mean that everyone else died? She had stumbled over their bodies often enough while being stalked by Caleb.

There was no Buffy out there anymore, no Xander, no Giles. Oz had already left her, long ago. What was there on the outside that could possibly make her life worth living? Far better to remain here, a hell dimension of her own devising, her punishment for always pushing too far too fast, for who would mourn her loss? She could stay in the coma forever, always walking the familiar if devastated streets, stumbling over the places she had hallowed with her blood and tears, cycling herself ever downwards until she could release herself into the same sweet oblivion as all of her friends. Could there be anything on the outside as sickeningly fulfilling?

 _(The angel)_

Don't think it, Rosenberg. It was a mistake. The most beautiful, luscious, time-stopping mistake of your life.

She knew nothing of that mysterious woman. Willow supposed that the woman did, in fact, exist in the outside world; her brief glance into her consciousness had shown it. Could this woman possibly mean something to her? If she was real, how did she come into Willow's mind, to fight and defeat Caleb, to suck up his dust in such an enigmatic manner, and brand Willow's lips with her unspoken name?

Useless suppositions for now. No time for the living, for the dead cannot wait.

So Willow turned her back on the pearly gateway, wiped the tears from her face, and turned to face the wreckage of Sunnydale, ever the sibilant whispers of the unhallowed dead floating up to her ears, turning her mad. She managed only a dozen steps away from the focal point of her happiness, now represented by the pearly gate, before she sank to the ground, sobbing. The thought of facing those damned streets filled her with despair. Not just the chunks of concrete everywhere, but the teddy bears left behind by their little mistresses, and the cars that ran into light posts to become so much scrap, and the fires that yet burned within homes and without. Not to mention the buckets of her own blood, shed over and over again in her torture, and the bodies of the townspeople which were waxy and stagnant yet they would explode with so little as a stray touch, showering her in vileness.

This was her town. And Willow tried to remember it as it had been, before Buffy had come to turn her world upside down. But it was impossible, for they had fought demons on every street corner, had encountered vampires in every inch of the sewer, and had broken their bones and spilt their blood and shed their tears and lost their eyes... Willow crumpled even further. Nothing was left for her. She began to sob in great hiccups now, watery gasps of pain as she clutched herself around her waist and listened to the dead howl in her ears.

She was barely aware of the change it was so subtle. It began as a low glow on the horizon, the first fiery streams of crimson like sunrise over water, followed by raging rapids of blinding white light that blessed every thing in its path. The daystar, the lifegiver, Willow basked in its glow and lifted her tear-stricken face to it as if to kiss it and possess it, never realizing what the true source of that light was. Willow opened her tear-filled eyes, the glow refracting from her tears to create dancing prisms of light, and she stared with heartfelt gratitude at the sunlight. What was it that brought the sun to her nightmare world? Was that woman the source of this unearthly delightful light? "Oh, my G-d," Willow whispered, her heart melting in gratitude, and then she raised her eyes to the lightening sky and continued, _"Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha Olam, oseh ma'aseh v'reishit."_ The Hebrew tumbled from her mouth easily though she hadn't spoken it in years, and the words were Praised Are You, Lord our G-d, King of the Universe, Source of Creation.

And there. Just there. The sun crested the bowl of the ground and paved a highway to Willow. It was a single iconic image that she prayed would stay with her the rest of her life. This magnificent highway to the sun was framed by her glorious gateway on one side and a tremendous willow tree on the other. Willow's heart leaped in her chest, a joyous bubble that eased her most recent pain. This healing light lit a road for her, a road that led into the very heart of the sun

 _(the woman)._

She knew that if she could just tread that highway, if she could just merge her heart with the heart of the woman, she could meet all those she had ever loved and lost. She could understand all things that were now shrouded in mystery. She could dwell in the source of that light in peace and happiness until the very planet under her feet crumbled into dust and became as one with the universe. A scent of celestial flowers began to waft through her consciousness, and all eternity echoed about her.  
A light rippling sensation began to cascade through her muscles. It was a tingling, like the sense of standing on a rooftop just before a terrific thunderstorm, dark clouds on the horizon like great black beasts charging over the land, who come with champing bits of lightning and stamping hooves of thunder. That sense of power, of being connected to the earth and every living thing upon it filled her with a raging exultation and also with a great unfulfilled ache.

What was this new lifeblood? What force soothed her broken spirit and shed light on her pain? Could it possibly be _her_? Was she a woman of power? Whatever it was, it calmed the sibilant voices and eased them away, replacing their shrill discordant cries with a steady beat. Willow listened to this beat for long moments before realizing it was a heartbeat, but not her own, and the grasses bent to it like a dancer with a familiar partner. This beat, this dance, the zephyr wind was part of it, and the grasses too, and the water in her stream and the gophers in their burrows, and the gulls in their sky, they all danced to the beat. So Willow overcame her shame, and placed her feet carefully on the ground and let the wind turn her and the water whisper to her, her body turning gracefully in her own dance of life.

Only then did Willow start to walk back into the ruined streets of Sunnydale, the light sustaining her, feeding her, giving her hope. The tingling ripples in her skin coalesced about her body, and as she approached her private hell her very aspect shifted and changed. Her tattered and bloody clothing fell away from her, and she became enrobed in tight blue jeans, a black fringed shirt, with a single sapphire pendant hanging gently between her breasts.

Feeling young, strong, powerful

 _(alive!)_

Willow implacably strode down the streets, suddenly sure of her destination. The sun continued to rise behind her, imbuing her with a golden aura. And as she walked, her footsteps gentle in her red Converse sneakers, every footprint shivered in the dust and sent out rays of healing energy. Under her implacable advance the streets began to heal, the chunks of concrete and jagged gaps in the roads seamed together once again, the blood stains dissolving from them effortlessly. Lawns were set aright, fires were extinguished, green grass began to grow under her feet, and flowers began to bloom, and she walked without understanding it at all, no idea of the sacrifice given for such healing. She only knew that she would have been desolate without the healing, would not have been able to enact her most important plan if she had to casually stroll through the damnation of the First.

As Willow drew nearer her destination, her courage began to flag. Then she turned a street corner and beheld the source of her nightmares, and the only place she could go for closure. She must face her demons, and this time it was much harder than fighting in cemeteries and splashing through sewers, because her demons were now the dead bodies of her friends, lying in un-consecrated ground. Their voices were the whispers on the wind, now calmed by the sure knowledge of her arrival and the healing rays of that sun that continued to beat on her with a gentle force.

Sunnydale High. It lay ruined, imploded, all the walls crumpled into a vast pit. Willow carefully advanced as close to the edge of that maw as she could, her heart both troubled that she couldn't complete her task, and jubilant that she wouldn't have to. She had an excuse. She could just turn away, leave them crushed under concrete, reaved with swords, bitten by uber-vamps, and return to the glorious gateway and an uncertain future.

But her footsteps. They continued to quiver with golden light, and yet another vast wave of powerful ethereal energy rippled from her very body, convulsing her in shock, and before her bemused eyes Willow saw the walls of the school aright themselves, and the pit reformed into its catacombs, and the steel girders seamed themselves together with medical precision. It took only a few minutes before the school once again looked as it had when Dawn had started attending, as if their most terrible battle against the First had never happened.

And Willow thought of the blue eyes, and was deepened in wonder. She knew that this power didn't come from her. Could that enigmatic woman, the angel, the Slayer, be the source of this miracle? And at what price? She closed her eyes and concentrated fiercely, desperately. With her hand, Willow made a violent hooking gesture, as if grabbing something, and when she opened her eyes again her gateway stood beside her, translocated from near the willow tree.

Feeling her heart bathed in icy fear, Willow swiftly opened the door. First she just looked out through her eyes, but she couldn't see the woman. So she extended a hand through the doorway, and clenched her fist, and was surprised by the amount of pain she felt in her body. Willow retreated once more back into her own mind, sad that she hadn't seen the woman, and a little worried about coming out of her coma completely. How bad would it be?

 _(You have no comprehension of pain, Willow)_

 _(not yet, anyway)_

Banishing back her gate with another wave of her fist, Willow squared off against the school. Wherever this power came from, she wasn't going to abuse it. With full knowledge of what she would find inside, Willow walked through the inner courtyard and entered the empty, echoing hallways.

There were bodies everywhere, humans, Bringers, and ubervamps alike, and the first she came upon was that of Anya. Due to that curious healing magic, Anya wasn't cradled on stone, but lay simply on the tiled floor, her entire torso reaved almost in two. Willow sank to the floor next to her, and took her hand. "Oh Anya," she choked. "I hated you for so long. You were so crass, and rude, and tactless!" Willow brushed Anya's golden hair away from her face with her other hand as she continued, "But you did love Xander, and you made him happy. And your thousand years of demon knowledge sure came in handy for the Scooby gang."

Willow looked at the young woman then, and suddenly made up her mind. Getting off the floor, Willow walked back out of the school and started hunting for the maintenance shed around the back. It was filled with fertilizer and shovels and the wheelbarrow she was looking for. Inexplicably, it also held a large stack of white sheets, and Willow quirked her eyebrow as she took them from the shelf. It was as if the shed knew what she was needing, and gave her what she most desired. Hmm. Magic shed, but again not her own magic.

She wheeled the barrow back to the school entrance and brought it to Anya. Taking one of the white sheets, she carefully wrapped Anya's lifeless body, then grunted as she hoisted it into the wheelbarrow.

Think, Rosenberg. Which of Sunnydale's twelve cemeteries is closest?

Willow turned the barrow around and started out the school. Once outside she lifted her face to the sun, which continued to beam gently, not fiercely, and smiled wistfully. She began to walk Anya's body to the nearest cemetery, Sangrevida Cemetery, which was five blocks away. As she entered through the gateway, Willow couldn't help but remember the times she had spent in this cemetery; almost kissing Xander that first summer when Buffy was gone, eating potato chips while watching Riley doing his commando thing, taking the potentials out for Spike-hunting. The terrain was familiar, and she unerringly pushed the wheelbarrow to a secluded corner. She rounded a privet hedge and beheld a spot that was empty of headstones. Coming to a stop, Willow carefully pulled out Anya's body and laid her in repose on the ground, straightening the white sheet around her.

Rolling her shoulders a bit against the ache, Willow picked up the barrow and returned to the school. Her next trip into the school she found Chao-Ahn, wrapped her up in a sheet, and took her to the cemetery next to Anya. As she entered the school for a third time, she noticed with a little trepidation that the sunlight was wavering a bit. Not that the sun was setting, but the light wasn't as clear, as if the connection had been lost. Her mind whirled in speculation, and she thought again of how she had looked through the doorway and not seen her blue-eyed saviour. No matter. Lots to do, Rosenberg.

Hours passed in this painful labour, and Willow was glad it was so difficult physically. As she came upon the bodies of the potentials she would wrap them and cart them away, not yet allowing herself to think about them, about their lives cut short by this madness. It grew infinitely more difficult when she came upon the atrium and the broken bodies of Dawn and Xander. She ignored Xander for a moment, knowing his would be the most painful of all, and wishing to prolong the inevitable. She crouched next to Dawn, and touched her face, and whispered, "Little Dawnie."

But Xander was too close, his body was right next to Dawn's, cut down protecting her with his last breath. Willow forced herself to look at him, her part-time lover, her closest friend. With a watery gulp, Willow realized that the blow that killed him came from his blind side. "I guess there is no parrot for you, Xander," she said softly, sitting next to him and taking his cold hand in hers. "Buffy wanted you to take Dawn away, she just wanted to save you. Why didn't you go?" Willow choked out this last line, and suddenly she felt angry. "Why do you always have to be the selfish one? Why couldn't you just run away, and give me a place to come home to?" She thumped her hand on his lifeless shoulder, and then buried her face on his chest, sobbing. "Anyplace you were was home to me," she whispered.

No home for Willow, now. No family, no town. Willow straightened again, and angrily wiped the tears from her eyes. To work, Willow. Tears later.

So Willow wrapped up those bodies as well, and one by one took them to the secluded corner of the cemetery. And there was Giles, dear dear fussy glasses-cleaning Giles, Giles whom she had a crush on, Giles of the lovely voice and sensual guitar, Giles her teacher, her mentor, and her friend. There was Robin Wood, and Vi and Rona, and finally, in the pit beneath the school there was Buffy.

A little light-headed from the continuous effort of pushing the wheelbarrow, her body burning with exhaustion, Willow sat down next to Buffy's body. "Hey Buffy," she said a little whimsically. "It wasn't supposed to turn out like this, you know." She stopped for a moment, getting her breathing under control, looking down at Buffy's body lying upright in repose, her clothes surprisingly clean, and she wondered if that remarkable healing magic did that as well. "Why do you always have to wear such impractical shoes to battles, Buffy?" she asked aloud. "I mean, we're trying to save the world, yet you have to wear your high-heeled boots. I always thought that combat boots were the real fightin' boots."

Willow sighed, and straightened the collar of Buffy's shirt, and smoothed the hair over her face. "We were supposed to grow old together, Buffy. We were supposed to live next door to each other, and cheat at bingo together, and forget to take our pills. We weren't going to end like this, with you and Xander and Giles gone and me all alone..."

She began to cry softly, and almost wished for a tempest of tears to prove her loyalty, but her body was too exhausted for anything but a slow and terrible leak. All too soon she got up again, wrapped Buffy's body in a white sheet, and slung her over her shoulder to lurch up the stone steps to the basement. She had left the wheelbarrow just outside the room that had held the Seal of Danthalzar (thank goodness whatever magic had recreated this place had left it out), and her knees were threatening to turn to unsupportive goo by the time she got there.

Willow felt a lot odd as she wheeled the barrow into the elevator, but at least there was no instrumental version of 'Don't Worry, Be Happy' playing in the background. That would have shattered her sanity for sure. When the elevator doors opened, Willow continued pushing the wheelbarrow through the now nearly deserted hallways, steering around the leftover bodies of Bringers and vamps, glad that she was nearly finished this ordeal.

When she finally emerged from the school she stopped in surprise. It was twilight, and whatever golden energy had imbued the place was fading. Not that the spell was reverting, but Willow could sense a great exhaustion, and knew it didn't only come from her. There was still enough light to see where she was going, but she missed the ethereal sunlight from earlier; that gentle, loving light that had given her strength for her most important task.

Pushed to the very point of exhaustion, Willow had to stop half a dozen times to rest while wheeling Buffy's body to the cemetery. As she rounded the corner of the privet hedge, Willow stopped cold, and very carefully put the wheelbarrow to the ground. Joy leaped in her heart, a bittersweet ache that hurt down in the stomach, yet filled the heart with so much gladness it left no room for any other emotion.

The angel's back was to Willow, her faintly glowing wings tucked in by her body. Her brown hair was intricately braided with long ropes of seed pearls that glistened in the twilight sun, and her hands were extended out to the long rows of bodies. Through the pounding of her heart, Willow heard the angel say, "Oh, my darling."

Willow was transfixed, she could not move. The whole world was suddenly silent and still, no grasses bending, no gophers burrowing, no gulls crying; just herself and the unknown saviour who was enveloped in a halo of lustrous light. And all Willow could do was look at her, her heart aching as if to break, her muscles burning in fatigue, a deep longing in the pit of her stomach, the memory of those angel's arms, throat

 _(lips)_

coming back to haunt her with beauty. And in a simple burst, the hideous cocoon of self-loathing shattered, and Willow's soul emerged triumphant; a butterfly of unutterable loveliness. Tears began to trickle anew down Willow's cheeks. She couldn't move, only stand frozen in this surreal moment that held her in a tight grip. How long Willow watched the angel she could never after say, only that time froze in that exquisite moment, a wild and desperate love springing up from Willow's soul.

 _She came back for me._

Willow looked at the angel, the blessed angel who now unfurled her wings as she crouched on the ground to touch the shrouded bodies, her white gown trailing on the ground like new-fallen snow. Love began to sweep through her soul, cleaning out the desolate places, filling her with heavy warmth until her limbs were aching to feel the angel once more, to touch those perfect rounded arms, to linger on the pulse-point in the angel's neck, to feel the smoothness of the lips against hers. How much did the angel risk by returning to her? This woman, this Slayer, this angel, she was Willow's hope, her salvation. Her very hands touched the bones of Willow's soul, and shaped them anew.

 _She loves me._

Oh, my angel.

Willow wondered if she said that last part aloud, because she watched as the angel slowly got to her feet and turned until her brilliant blue eyes were riveted on hers. Still Willow was rooted, unable to move, scarce able to breathe.

"Willow?"

Her name from the angel's lips sounded like exquisite music, despite the open sob in the angel's throat. The angel's face narrowed in concern, and then she held out her bare arms wide. The spell broken, Willow let out a low cry, and rushed into the angel's arms. Willow melted into the embrace, feeling the angel's arms come about her so strong, and her throat constricted in the delicious pain of seeing her again, smelling her sweet familiar scent, being so close. Her own arms were wrapped about the angel's waist and there, surrounded by the angel's strong protection, Willow began to sob. At the sound of Willow's tears, the angel also began to weep, her grip tightening convulsively. Her hands tangled in Willow's hair, and Willow felt their tears mingling on their cheeks, and they drank each other's breath.

They stood there for a long time, neither willing to let go, neither of them wanting or needing more than this close communion. Love for this unknown woman raged through Willow as if she had never felt love before. And swift upon that realization came another; that she and the angel would never be parted again.

"You came back for me," Willow finally sobbed.

The angel cupped the back of Willow's neck to lift her face from the hollow of her throat. Willow looked deeply into sapphire eyes, astonished by the depth of devotion written so very plainly there. "If you wish it, I'll never leave you again," the angel replied, before pulling Willow in for a tender kiss.

Willow nearly swooned in delight and fatigue, letting this angel kiss her again and again, her lips now firm, now soft, always giving, giving the one thing that no boy had ever given her before. The angel finally, regretfully, pulled her lips away, then held Willow at arm's length away from her. "My dearest, you are exhausted," she said, wiping Willow's tears away with a graceful hand. "You've been very busy," she continued, waving her hand at the rows of bodies laying on the ground. "Will you come and rest with me?"

Willow looked around her, at the twilight cemetery, and the angel correctly answered her unspoken need. "Not here, dearest. I've prepared a special place for you. Now close your eyes and take my hands. This may feel a little weird."

"I trust you," Willow said confidently, allowing her eyes to close, her fingers thrilling at the angel's touch. She felt a pin-prickling in her scalp, a careful shudder in her head, and then a faint whooshing noise overcame them both. Exhilarated and a trifle apprehensive, Willow waited until the world calmed around her once more.

"Open your eyes, Willow," the angel said.


	20. Under the Willow Tree

Chapter Twenty

Under the Willow Tree

Willow opened her eyes, her jaw dropping in amazement as she took in the panorama around her. She let go of the angel's hands reluctantly, but did so she could turn in a complete circle, her eyes feasting on the spectacle. For someone who had naught to eat visually but a steady diet of devastation and apocalyptic ruin, Willow gorged herself on the lush vegetation surrounding her and the haloed angel.

She and the angel stood atop a bluff with a wide river gorge tumbling endlessly beneath them, mountains rising blue and hazy in the distance, enveloping them in a protective embrace. The bluff was carpeted in sweet grass, red poppies, and delicate blue flax flowers, somehow the same cerulean colour as the angel's eyes. They stood near a single tremendous weeping willow tree that thrummed with living energy. It wasn't merely a feast for Willow's anguished eyes, but for all her senses, for she heard the water frothing in the gorge beneath her, and the shrill shriek of a golden eagle dipping through the pearly sky. She could smell the crushed grass under her feet and a faint hint of honeysuckle coming from the angel's hair. Willow could feel the gentle rays of the sun and a delicate mist arising from the boiling water in the gorge, alighting on her skin like delicate moths.

In one turn Willow took all this in, and her heart, already brimming with the aching joy of seeing her saviour once again, overflowed in the sweetness. She felt thick with it, a languid peace that began to ease her fatigued muscles. Willow finally returned her gaze back to the angel, and inhaled sharply in surprise, her hand coming unbidden to cover her mouth.

The angel was bathed in the pearly sunlight, fine mist from the tumbling water setting her golden aura aflame. Her soft wings were outstretched once more, and her face showed indescribable longing tinged with ageless sorrow, a sadness so deep and malignant that it brought a lump to Willow's throat. The seed pearls glistened in her chocolate brown hair, light waves of which cascaded down a creamy bare shoulder. Her bodice was even more intricate than before; long thin ropes of pure beaten gold crisscrossed underneath her gently heaving breasts, the starlight fabric underneath cascading to the ground like fairytale wishes. If it were possible, Willow would admit that the woman simply got more beautiful with every passing moment here in paradise.

And as Willow stared at her angel with wonder in her eyes, feeling small and ugly and insignificant, the angel did grow even more glorious; the feathers on her wings dipped in gold, and pure gold bracelets running up her arms, an emerald jewel appearing just above her brow, suspended there by a gold circlet. And, if anything, the angel's expression got sadder the longer she stood there, swayed by the whims of Willow's desire. "Willow," she finally choked, reaching out a perfect hand to the slender witch.

"Who are you?" Willow stammered.

"May I show you?" the angel timidly replied. At Willow's nod, and under her bewildered eyes, a shimmering cascade overcame her, erasing the wings and the star-studded gown, to be replaced by powder blue scrub pants, a white scrub shirt with dolphins and half-camels on it, a stethoscope around her neck and familiar red Converse sneakers on her feet. The seed pearls in her hair melted, her hair drawing back into a lowly ponytail, and then upon the angel's face cracked three long slashes and the horrific yellowing of a slowly-healing black eye. And the angel's careworn face fell, and she almost turned away in some sort of shame.

Willow would have none of that, for whatever light had previously surrounded the angel, imbuing her with mystery and glamour; that light had now permeated her very skin and bones so she radiated from within. Even with the memory of the exquisite beauty of the angel so fresh in Willow's mind, she now thought to herself that she'd never seen another woman quite so beautiful.

"My name is Tara Maclay," the woman said, ducking her head and blinking her eyes. "I'm your nurse."

"My nurse?" Willow stammered. "You're not a Slayer? However did you defeat Caleb? And why do you look like an angel? And what happened to your face? How are you even here?" She approached her angel

 _(nurse)_

as she barraged her with questions, raising one of her hands to gently stroke the gashes down Tara's face. Willow was glad to see a small measure of Tara's sorrow melt in her tender questing touch, along with a quirky smile at all of Willow's questions.

"It's a l-long story, Willow," the woman

 _(her name is Tara)_

replied. "And I promise you I will share it. As for how I am here, I have special mind-reading powers granted by the goddess Aranaea. I'm actually at the head of your hospital bed with my fingers on your skull. Through that connection, I can come here into your mind and talk to you." Willow opened her mouth to start another barrage of questions, but Tara continued. "But look at you, you're trembling," and she took a hold of Willow's fingers that had been touching her face, "will you please rest a while?"

Willow nodded, interlacing her fingers with Tara's as her nurse steered her toward the shimmering curtain of willow leaves. "The goddess Aranaea?" Willow asked as she walked hand in hand with her saviour, revelling in the feeling of a woman's slender fingers entwined with hers. "Does that mean you are a witch?" That would make sense to her. Tara nodded, drawing back a section of that leafy curtain and Willow peered inside the comfortable tree womb to see a blanket on the ground and a half dozen pillows strewn about. She entered, stooping a little under the branches, and sighed in admiration at the sunlight glowing through the green leaves, casting the place in soothing shadows.

"Yes, I'm a witch, as are you," Tara said, stopping in the sylvan glow. "Now, Willow. I'm your nurse, and I command you to rest! Sit against the tree, lay on the blanket, whatever you wish." Tara squeezed Willow's hand, then disentangled her fingers.

"You're not going, are you?" Willow asked, a note of panic in her voice. The whole place felt surreal to her, like a bubble that would pop the moment Tara left, stranding her once again in plain old Sunnydale, with only a whisper of memory that things could be different. Tara only smiled at her, and drew her closer to the trunk of the tree, picking up a pillow and handing it to her. Willow noticed how carefully her nurse sat against the trunk of the tree, almost wincing as if in pain of some sort, setting her stethoscope on the ground next to her and carefully placing a pillow behind her back.

"Where will you sit, Willow?" she asked, fixing Willow with a clear gaze.

Willow gulped. She knew exactly where she wanted to sit, but could she possibly ask this enigmatic and beautiful woman what she really desired? "Could I sit with you?" Willow stammered hopefully.

The woman's face brightened, a full smile gracing her face, and Willow could see the new scar tissue on her cheeks tighten. Tara didn't answer, merely patted the ground next to her. But to Willow, even that close just wasn't close enough, so she rallied her courage and headed straight for her angel who read her intent and opened her legs. Willow burrowed between them, leaning back against Tara's bosom, finally contented, her head coming to rest just under Tara's shoulder. She sighed as Tara's arms came about her to encircle her waist, hearing Tara softly gasp.

"Will you tell me your story, Tara?" Willow softly asked, loathe to break their fulfilling communion with anything louder than a whisper, yet her mind burning with curiosity, a million questions fluttering up to her lips. But for the first time in her life, Willow kept herself under control; she dammed the flood of words that usually spilled all willy-nilly from her mouth, thinking that she would do anything to sound grown-up and wise in front of this most exceptional woman.

Tara sighed, and Willow's heart fell. She was asking too much, too fast. She shouldn't be sitting here, all comfortable with this woman who she'd never actually met in the flesh. But once again Tara seemed to anticipate her thoughts, and her grip around Willow actually tightened, keeping her close. "Willow, I'm not sure if you will be able to remember any of this when you awaken," her nurse began, and Willow's heart fell even further, plummeting into unknown depths of fear. The thought was intolerable, that her precious moments with her angel could be lost when she awoke from her coma. As much as Willow wanted to protest, her mouth remained shut, and she waited for Tara to continue. "My story isn't so pleasant that I wish to tell it twice. Can you wait until you wake up, darling?"

And with that one single word, Willow was saved from her despair. Darling. No one had ever called her darling before. That word coming from Tara's mouth felt as luscious as whipped chocolate, and Willow actually licked her lips in delight.

"I'll always wait for you," Willow replied, snuggling deeper into Tara, wrapping her own arms over Tara's arms, not catching the wince of pain that coloured Tara's face as she did so. It felt so good, so right, to lean against that warm, womanly body, to smell the sun-kissed brown hair, to be enveloped by someone who obviously cared for her deeply. But where did this loving concern come from? Was this Tara only acting as a loving nurse should? Was all this just part of her job? Willow's mind, always cursed with frenetic activity, continued its cyclone of thought. Who was this woman?

"You've been very busy since I left," Tara said a few minutes later, her voice tentative, as if afraid to startle Willow from her relaxation. "I saw you try to come out once. Why did you stop?"

"It was twice," Willow replied, turning her head so she could look up at Tara. "The first time was when I saw you, and you looked so startled, so hurt...and then I looked out later again, but I didn't see you there." As Willow spoke, she remembered the way the streets and buildings healed themselves, giving her enough strength to bury her dead friends, and she was spiked with curiosity.

"Would you tell me what you did? I saw you gathering the Scooby Gang," Tara said.

Willow's eyes widened in incredulity and she saw Tara's face crinkle in almost-mirth. "How much do you know?" she asked the brunette.

"Relax again and I'll tell you," her nurse said, and Willow complied, returning to face the leafy curtain of the willow tree, leaning softly again into Tara's lush body, then allowed her eyes to close, caught under the spell of Tara's rich voice. "I know that Buffy is the Slayer, and that you and Xander joined her and her Watcher, Giles, to combat the forces of the Hellmouth. I know you had many battles over the last seven years, and saved the world from destruction at least a half dozen times."

Her voice grew even quieter, her lips nearly brushing against Willow's ear. "And I know that this last time was the worst. Althanea told me—"

"You've spoken to Althanea?" Willow asked, turning again to look at Tara's face, their lips only inches apart, and Willow was stricken with desire.

Tara lifted her hands to gently push Willow's head to face forward, chuckling a little. "I swear, Willow Rosenberg, if you won't rest..."

"I'll be good," Willow replied quickly. Every time Tara touched her, her whole body thrilled to it, and she momentarily thought of devising ways to have Tara touch her some more. Yet she was desperate to hear the rest of this story; all her most guarded secrets revealed by someone she'd never even met. So she faced forward again, took a deep breath, and continued listening.

"Althanea is here with me in the hospital room right now," Tara continued. "Between her and Angel I got the story, how you brought the Potential Slayers to Sunnydale from all corners of the world, how Buffy found the scythe and battled Caleb, and then the battle inside the high school."

The words weren't spoken offhand, yet Willow knew that this woman couldn't really appreciate the severity of their war. She couldn't resist shuddering as she remembered Buffy fighting the ubervamp in front of the potentials, the horror she felt as Xander staggered towards her, blinded in one eye. Seeing all of them, all of her dear friends, her family, tossed so meaninglessly on the stricken floors of the high school, their blood spattering the tile, their heads dashed to pieces and all the precious memories in them left to leak away.

Her nurse let her sit in this terrible recollection, then Willow remembered that Tara had asked her to share what she was doing. "I couldn't just leave them there," Willow began. "I almost came out, when I saw what had been done to your face, but then the voices of my friends began to shriek at me, calling for release." A thought dawned in Willow's mind, and she couldn't resist the urge to face Tara again, as she excitedly asked, "But I'm in a coma, right? This could all be make-believe. My friends could still be alive!"

Tara's arms tightened around her, and the nurse nuzzled her neck as she stammered, "I'm s-sorry, Willow. They are all dead, all except for Faith."

Deep inside, Willow knew. It made sense now that she had never come across Faith's body as she stumbled through the streets of Sunnydale, chased by the maniacal Caleb. Sorrow overwhelmed her once again, but this time she was too tired for more tears. She felt tired as she never had before, a deep weariness of life and all its disappointments. "Why go on?" Willow whispered over the great lump in her throat. "Is there anything to make life worth living?"

Willow's eyes burned with pent-up sadness, and her body began to tremble anew. She lifted her hands to cover her face as full realization slammed into her with destructive force. They really were all dead, they left her behind in a world teeming with vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness. And because of what happened to Buffy before, Willow knew they were all in heaven. A place of happiness and contentment, no fear, no doubt. They were there, and she was thrust into hell, to be pursued and reaved by Caleb, to be left behind once again. She was always getting left behind. There would be no resurrection now, no way to bring them all back to her. Willow would face the forthcoming decades of her life with no foundation, no support group, no family.

The thought was intolerable, and Willow writhed in pain, great tearing sobs erupting from her chest. She curled her knees up to her breasts and curled her head in them, rolling herself into a little ball, anything to protect her from the hideous truth. From deep within her pain, Willow heard Tara choke, "Dearest heart," and then felt Tara's hands on her, pulling Willow's knees sideways over one of Tara's hips. Thus cradled sideways, Willow felt those magnificent arms reach around her, embracing her tightly. Willow brought her hands down from her tear-streaked face to grasp Tara tightly around the waist, hearing the nurse gasp slightly.

"I saved the world, Tara," Willow finally whispered. "But not for me. Never for me."

Willow felt forsaken as Tara lifted one of her hands away, but then she felt Tara lift her head with delicate fingers. Willow gazed into the depths of Tara's cerulean eyes, seeing steely resolve mixed with abject devotion. "No, Willow," her nurse gently disagreed. "Love and pleasure beyond imagining await you. You have only to wish it."

 _(I know what I wish...)_

Tara used her hands to brush the tears from Willow's cheeks, and Willow saw Tara's lips descending to her forehead. She closed her eyes as she felt the tender kiss, but then she opened them again, suddenly very sure of her heart's desire. Willow lifted her face and caught those lips with her own. Tara stiffened momentarily in surprise, but then she moved her mouth against Willow's. The first kiss was tentative, the second was mind-blowing.

And the third was cataclysmic.

Willow felt the rumbling deep inside her, as the walls of her sexually repressed prison weakened under the tender thrusting of Tara's tongue. Her earlier kiss with her angel was desperate, born of devastation and ruin, seeking, seeking some safe harbour from the memory of Caleb and his ferocity. This kiss was much the same, as Willow sought support from Tara, casting her umbrella of need over them both and she felt simultaneously joyous and ashamed. Was this what Tara really wanted?

But then Willow had no more time nor space in her addled brain for such rumination, for Tara engulfed her in passion. Willow gladly succumbed to it, raising her hands from Tara's waist to alternately caress her face and stroke her hair. Tara's tantalizing fingers remained cupped on Willow's face, using them to lift her ever higher, higher, her lips engulfing Willow's mouth, tilting, shifting, sharing, possessing.

Trembling in exhaustion and delight, Willow finally broke the kiss, wrapping her arms protectively about the woman, tucking her head back on Tara's shoulder. There was no mistaking the gasp of pain, and Willow pulled back to look at Tara's scar-ravaged face. "Did I hurt you?" she meekly asked, cursing herself for her stupidity. Just like her, to get so absorbed in her own joy and just-been-kissed exultation and completely miss out on what was happening with her angel.

"No, darling, it wasn't you," Tara replied, smiling through her wince of pain, gesturing at her chest. "I just got hurt a little while ago, and it hasn't quite healed yet."

Willow pulled even further away, incredulous. "Then why did you let me lean against you? Tara?"

In response, the brown-haired nurse merely wrapped her arms around Willow once again, and drew her back into her protective embrace. "Because I'm desolate without you," she whispered, and tenderly placed another kiss on Willow's lips before leaning back against the tree once more.

Willow could only look at her, and the love that sprang up in her soul was nourishing her, filling her with warmth and beauty. "Who are you?" Willow whispered.

"I'm the woman who's going to make you happier than you've ever been."

The words were spoken so softly that Willow could barely hear them, yet they hammered into her heart with explosive force. Could this be what Tara meant earlier? That life would yet be worth living? Willow could almost believe her, if this was but a taste of life with Tara in it. Her previous life, always reeling from disaster to disaster, turned to ashes in her mouth.

And Tara was chocolate.

To roll the taste of Tara on her tongue, the sweetness of it, to drown in the velvety sugar tide, savouring every moment, it could be the most worthy work of her lifetime. No more hellmouth, no more demons, vampires, incubi, succubae, werewolves or ghosts. Just chocolate.

Just Tara.

So they sat, in this moment frozen in time. Here, under the umbrella of the weeping willow tree, time fell off the face of the earth, opening a doorway into eternity. Unlike the freezing of time through terror or sleep, this was a moment of unutterable peace, as the connection between the two tortured souls solidified and deepened, connecting their hearts not only to each other, but to the universe.

A puzzle with only one solution. They could find peace only in each other. For Tara no amount of healing power, of racking up the blood debt, could compare to the completeness she felt with Willow in her arms, her love's red hair trailing over her breasts. And for Willow no amount of witchcraft, no last-minute solutions to apocalyptic problems, no security in her brainy power could compare to the wholeness she felt in Tara's embrace. For once she didn't have to be brave, didn't have to be the big guns, didn't have the weight of the world pressing on her. This moment, frozen in time.

But all such moments end. And Willow finally recalled what Tara had asked her before she fell into tears. "I'm burying them," she blurted out.

"Sorry?" Tara said.

"You asked what I was doing in Sunnydale. I had gone to the high school to get their bodies, I couldn't just leave them there, resting amidst the Bringers and the ubervamps. So I got a wheelbarrow and brought all of their bodies to the graveyard." Willow felt the tears begin to choke her throat once again. "I'll bury them, and then they'll be gone."

"The act is more symbolic than you may realize, Willow," Tara responded. "By burying them in the graveyard in your mind, you are making them a part of you. They will never really be gone; they will live forever in you."

"Are you going to leave me again?" Willow whispered, clutching at Tara's arms.

"No," Tara firmly responded. "I'm sorry I left the last time. I should have stayed, to help you through this."

"I'm sure you had better things to do," Willow said wistfully.

"When you come out, you'll understand," Tara said dryly. "But I won't leave you now. Althanea is on the outside, helping to sustain me, and you and I will walk out of your coma together."

Willow relaxed a bit under the firm determination in Tara's voice. A few minutes passed, and then Willow said, "Thank you, Tara. I'm not sure if you can ever realize what you mean to me. I mean, how much I appreciate what you've done. Well, you know, with the thing with Caleb and all, you looked so much like Buffy did when she was doing the slaying, so hot and fast and you will tell me what happened with Caleb, won't you?"

Tara chuckled. "I know, I babble," Willow said. "It's just, I'm really grateful for you. And I usually don't use so many words to say stuff that little, but do you get it at all?"

"I do."


	21. In the Graveyard

**In the Graveyard**

Ever after, Tara could not say how long she spent holding Willow in the womb of the tree. The sultry glow of the afternoon coupled with their most fantastic kisses had ignited a raging inferno within. She keenly felt pressure building in her core as she nearly swooned in the painful clutch of Willow's embrace. It was a magical afternoon, and despite the ragings of pain that clashed with the ragings of love, Tara realized that she had never been happier. She sat, her ordinary arms just under Willow's breasts, able from that perfect vantage point to breathe in the scent of Willow's hair, nuzzle her neck, or turn her face to plant a garden of kisses.

Just when she felt she would die from the exquisite torment growing within her, Tara realized she had to hold back. It would be far too easy in this time and this place to take advantage of Willow in her exhausted state. She had been made desolate, ambushed by ghosts, and was now so weary in Tara's arms that she hovered in a state of near-sleep, her limbs twitching once in a while, her hands convulsing over Tara as if to make sure that Tara was still there.

As if she would ever leave. Her place, now and forever, was by Willow's side. Only at Willow's rejection would she turn away. The thought frightened her, and she dipped her nose once again to Willow's gleaming crimson hair, taking a deep breath, grounding her. The mere notion of returning to a life that didn't have a Willow-shaped girl in it was terrifying. Even with what Willow had unknowingly put her through; her encounter with the demon in the graveyard, her contact with Donny's hardened fist, the inhalation of Caleb and all his evil and the subsequent wall he built, even the hideous healing of the day before, even this life was better than she one she knew before.

Willow moaned slightly as Tara's lips touched her hair and Tara drew back softly, not wanting to wake her. Soon enough though, the redhead's eyes opened, and her face turned to look straight at Tara. Through her most glorious connection with the redhead's mind, her fingers on the comatose girl's newly-healed skull, Tara knew what she was thinking. "Are you ready to go back?" Tara asked.

"Will you be with me?" Willow whispered, clutching at Tara's arms, her words causing Tara to melt with sorrow. Not trusting the right words to come out of her mouth, Tara merely smiled gently, then kissed her, softly and almost playfully.

Only then could she respond. "I meant what I said earlier, Willow. I'll always be with you. I won't leave you, now or ever. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," Willow replied, drawing Tara's face back down to her mouth with steady fingers. Tara lost all patience with playful and kissed Willow with an ardent intensity that deepened the aching in her core, flicking Willow's lips with her tongue, then dipping inside Willow's silky mouth. Willow broke away slightly, licking her lips and whispering the word, "Tara-liscious," before Tara once again captured her mouth. She heard Willow moan down her throat, so she intensified her kiss, ravaging Willow's mouth with her lips and tongue.

Willow was a quick study. She pulled Tara away from the tree, ever so slightly, so carefully, and tentatively slid one hand under the hem of Tara's scrub shirt. Tara's knees turned to jelly as Willow took control of the kiss, tilting Tara's mouth, grazing inside it with her own tongue before sucking the tip of Tara's tongue back into her own mouth. Tara was overcome with emotion; Willow _wanted_ her, and her need of the brown-haired nurse was obvious. _Never had, never had anyone_ , and Tara's mind shut down even further as Willow's cool fingers ran slightly up Tara's back and she moaned in ecstasy. So lost was she in Willow's passionate kiss, the lips that plundered her, reducing her to her simplest and most primeval form that she scarcely realized Willow's hand shyly moving from her back to her front, brushing just above her navel, heading inexorably to her breasts, but encountering the scabby mess of demon grooves instead.

Tara felt Willow freeze, her lips stopped moving entirely, though they were still pressed to her own. Only then did Tara feel where Willow's hand was. She closed her eyes, overcome with remorse; she didn't mean it to go that far, she didn't mean for Willow to ever know what the demon did to her. Deep down she had hoped that the demon wounds would heal entirely before her relationship with Willow would ever go that far. But Willow's hand was getting bolder, and Tara felt the cool fingers lightly investigate her abdomen, finding the base of the three hideous grooves, tracing each of them up to her bra strap. She felt Willow's lips leave her, her girl pulled away, and the hand came out from under her shirt. Willow was mad, Willow was afraid, Willow was...

"Tara, look at me," she heard Willow say.

Tara slowly opened her eyes. Willow was crying, and she took one of Tara's hands with both of hers. "Tara, please," Willow choked. "Tell me!"

"Oh, Willow," Tara cried, her heart breaking as she saw the depths of concern in Willow's teary eyes. And she couldn't help it, she couldn't always be the strong one

 _(The Kraken)_

and Tara herself began to weep. She could see it all happening again, the tusked demon pursuing her, chasing her around the headstones. How his clawed hand had ripped open her face, then ripped open her chest, leaving shreds of skin to flap in the breeze before the inundating crimson flood. Oh, and how her eyes turned black, a horrifying similitude of the preacher, how she raised her fingers and attacked, attacked, attacked with her white magic, perverting it horribly, his face crackling and burning under her fingers.

This time it was Tara who sobbed, and clutched at Willow in her arms. Willow held her, then gently pulled Tara back with her until they were laying down on the blanket spread beneath the tree, front to front. Willow tenderly placed Tara's head in her shoulder, wrapped her arm about Tara's waist, and then curled one of her legs over Tara's legs. Tara continued to cry, great tearing gasps that hurt so exquisitely, but she was immensely aware of her new position next to Willow. She clutched at Willow, and dampened Willow's fringed shirt with her tears, and slowly began to calm herself.

And there it was. Where it always had been. It was the

 _Willow-light_

and it blazed all the brighter for her weakness. And Tara remembered her choking admission made in the darkness of her soul that great and terrible day she finally accepted her fate, and she couldn't help herself, she just had to ask, "Willow, can you save me?"

She felt Willow grasp her a little tighter, literally felt the waves of warmth and love pouring from her like cleansing waterfalls. She was held within Willow, embraced with an affection and care she had never felt before; not even her mother had ever held her with such fierce devotion. She felt her face lifted, and she looked through tear-prismed eyes at her love. A sweet, hot, dry kiss, while Willow stroked her hair, and then she spoke, "Tara, I don't even know you." Another kiss, and Tara's tears, watering the garden of her despair, began to subside. "But I do know this." Yet another kiss, butterfly soft, Willow's fingers on either side of her face, holding her close. "I could not bear the thought of the world without you." A velvet kiss. "I would weather the apocalypse for you." The lips again, tender and bruised. "I would go to the ends of the earth to save you." Doe-skin soft. "Tara Maclay, I don't even know you." And then Willow moved Tara's face to tenderly kiss the slashed skin by Tara's ear, and whispered, "But I love you."

Elation like never before, tempered by a single devastating thought: it was easy for Willow to love her here, in the safety of her mind, with no judgmental eyes watching. But would Willow remember any of this at all when she woke?

 _(Oh, goddess, let her remember)_

"Willow, what if you don't remember me?" Tara finally choked out, ashamed to voice her most private fear. "What if you won't love me again?" She wept a little more at the thought.

Willow continued to stroke her hair and her skin, murmuring soft endearments, and then her girl finally spoke. "I've been trying to leave breadcrumbs," she said. "Little beacons of memory to light my way when I wake from the coma. I've been fiercely concentrating on some of our most precious moments together, and I'm praying to the goddess that it's enough."

So also did Tara pray. And so finally, when she regained her composure, she drew away slightly from the warmth of Willow's limbs. There, laid on the blanket underneath the willow tree, Tara made up her mind. With Willow's plea resounding in her head

 _(Tara, please tell me!)_

her hand on Willow's waist, she began to speak. "It's currently Tuesday. On Friday I had gone to Los Angeles to meet with Angel, remember me telling you how I knew about the Scoobies? He had an amulet for me that would grant me the power I needed to defeat Caleb. Just after he gave me the amulet we were ambushed by three demons. Angel fought two of them and I just ran." Willow nodded again, and Tara knew she understood. Sometimes it's better to run. "But he caught up to me, and slashed me in my face and across my chest."

Tara paused, long enough for Willow to breathlessly ask, "Then what happened? Did Angel kill the last demon?"

Tara took a deep breath. "No, I did. I used my magic to set him on fire." As she spoke, Tara could once again hear the crackling of the flames, the hideous howling of the witch-ravaged demon, and the wicked exultation that sliced through her, the feeling of malignant power. Not wanting to start crying again, Tara closed her eyes and breathed, trying to regain her composure. She felt Willow pick up her hand and interlace their fingers.

"You did that for me." It was a statement.

Tara reopened her eyes. "Yes," she simply replied.

"There's more, isn't there." Tara opened her mouth to say yes, but Willow continued, "You don't have to say anything else if you're not ready. Like you said, you can tell me on the outside."

Tara basked in the feeling of completeness. No drifting mite, no Kraken, no healer, no lamb, no witch, no nurse. Just Tara. Tara, complete. And she looked at Willow with frank admiration in her eyes.

Willow returned her steady gaze, and leaned over to softly kiss Tara on the lips once again. Tara was enthralled by Willow's lips, by how often the redhead came back to her, how much Willow needed her and the love that only she could give. Tara lay back on the blanket, enchanted by the way Willow's lips moved from her kiss-swollen mouth along her jaw once more, infinitely tender around the raging scars, small and hot kisses down her jaw line and then down her neck. Tara's breath caught in her throat time and again as Willow's fingers stroked her back, as her lips paused on the pulse point of Tara's neck and gently nipped. Waves of love cascaded through Tara's body, crashing into her core once again, the pressure beginning to build.

And now Willow was the intuitive one, for she withdrew slowly, then pulled Tara's weakened body close to her for a cuddle. "Now, my love," Willow finally said. "Shall we do some grave digging?"

"Definitely," Tara agreed, and was grateful for Willow's steadying hand as they ponderously rose from the yellow blanket under the willow tree.

"Is this a real place?" Willow asked, linking her arm with Tara's.

Tara smiled. "Actually, it is. I'll have to take you there once you've recovered."

"Tara? How badly hurt am I?" There was a ghost of dread on Willow's face, and Tara was conflicted. Lie, or tell the truth? Truth would lead to more Willow-y questions, especially about Tara's role in healing her. It was yet another facet of her recovery Tara was hoping to obscure forever. Willow didn't really need to know how bad it was, how much Tara had healed, how it really affected her... even now she could feel the blackness of Willow's injuries contaminating her soul, growing in a dark profusion along her bones, in her organs, spreading in her head.

"Not so bad," Tara lied. "And Althanea is here to help you heal yourself when you wake. She said something about you being hurt badly this year and using the power of the earth to heal yourself?"

Willow jumped into a complicated story about a Gnarl demon and how she had gone on recon because Buffy and Xander were preoccupied with other things and how she discovered the demon's lair and got stuck inside and he attacked her and his saliva was paralytic and he began ripping pieces of her skin from her and eating them until Buffy came and put out the demon's eyes and that caused the paralysis to end and then Buffy lent her some of her strength to help Willow use the power of earth to heal and she told it all in one long babble which made Tara chuckle.

"What?" Willow demanded.

"You used the word 'recon'," Tara laughed. "You're like, cool monster fighter."

Willow's face fell a little. "I always had a monster fighting team," she said pensively. "I guess I don't anymore."

Tara squeezed her hand. "Are you ready to go back?" she finally asked. Willow nodded, and took Tara's other hand as well. "Close your eyes," Tara instructed. Seeing Willow comply, Tara fixed in her mind the image of the sheet-shrouded bodies in the twilight cemetery and then pushed. With a whoosh and a peculiar prickling in their scalps, they found themselves returned to the garden of the dead.

Willow had dropped one of Tara's hands but held tightly to the other as they stared at the shrouded bodies. "What do you have in mind?" Tara asked, already knowing the answer.

"I'm going to bury them."

"No," Tara replied, and Willow swivelled her head to look incredulously at Tara. "We are going to bury them," Tara continued, squeezing Willow's hand.

Willow smiled then, and said, "I think there's a maintenance shed around here somewhere with some shovels." She made to turn away, but Tara grounded her, holding her back by holding her hand.

"Two shovels coming up." Tara closed her eyes and concentrated on Willow's hand, using the connection to fly through other grave-digging memories in Willow's mind. She found a rather unlikely one

 _Buffy and Willow were lounging next to an open grave, munching on cake doughnuts while Xander and Giles worked with shovels, flinging out clods of dirt. "Love makes you do the wacky," her witch was saying._

 _"That's the truth," Buffy commiserated._

 _At their casual conversation, Xander set his shovel aside and said, with a fair heaping amount of sarcasm, "Y'know, this might go a lot faster if_ you _femmes actually picked up a shovel, too."_

 _From inside the grave, Tara heard Giles say, "Here, here!"_

 _Buffy flounced her hair and broke off another piece of doughnut. "Sorry, but I'm an old-fashioned gal. I was raised to believe that men dig up the corpses and the women have the babies."_

and reached out with an ethereal hand, grasping the two shovels, bringing them over. With another peculiar whoosh, the two shovels materialised on the ground.

Willow stared at them. "How did you do that?" she asked.

"I have mind-reading powers, remember? I found a memory of yours with shovels in it and just borrowed the shovels for a while. I'll remember to put them back, I promise."

"I saw it," Willow said in wonder. "That was when someone wanted to create a zombie girlfriend for his brother and was using dead parts from different girls to do it." Willow looked softly at Tara. "You saw my family," she stated simply.

Tara was struck by Willow's use of the word. Family. Never had Willow ever referred to her own parents as her family, but only these three close friends. Tara took Willow's hand and squeezed softly, chuckling to herself. "Buffy was pretty funny, wasn't she?"

"We all got plenty of opportunities to provide comic relief," Willow admitted. "We had to, or else we would have gone insane. Xander was especially good at it. No matter what the apocalypse, he'd always have something funny to say." Willow's smile faded a little, and Tara could tell she was walking down another path of memory. "There's a party in my eye socket and everyone's invited," she said softly.

Then Willow was looking down at the shovels laying on the ground, and at Tara's hand holding hers. She shook her head a little in wonder. "What did I do to deserve you?" she said softly.

Tara didn't want to say outright, _oh, I'm your reward for saving the world._ It sounded pretentious, even to her. So she merely ducked her chin and blinked her eyes and turned to face the bodies on the grass. The sun hovered above the cemetery, casting a quiet late-afternoon glow over them both. While Willow went to grab the shovels, Tara closed her eyes and concentrated once more, this time entreating the ground to be soft and pliable.

So they began digging, and the earth almost threw itself out of the ground. They worked silently, their shovels rising and falling endlessly, until the first grave was deep enough. Together the witches went to a body, picking it up carefully and depositing it into the grave. Then they paused, resting on the handles of their shovels.

Tara recovered first, maybe as a result of all the farm work she did as a child. She stepped carefully into the grave and solemnly pulled the sheet away from the face, revealing a young Chinese girl. "This is your moment, Willow," she said. "Is there anything you want to tell me about this girl?"

"I never knew her all that well," Willow admitted. "Her name is Chao-Ahn, and she was from China. She didn't speak a word of English." Willow smiled a bit in the memory, and it warmed Tara's heart. This was the important part, to solidify these memories in her mind, and honour the valiant lives of her friends. "In fact, Giles had made a series of pictures about vampire slaying which were far too gory for anyone, and they totally freaked her out."

As Willow paused, Tara re-covered Chao-Ahn's face with the sheet and climbed out of the grave. She waited until Willow set her jaw and thrust her first shovelful of dirt over the Chinese girl's body, and then Tara helped bury her. Tara felt a tightness in her chest as she recalled

 _(dirt clods on a coffin)_

the death of her mother, how devastatingly final dirt could be. Eternal dirt, far outliving any human life, all human memory, in fact. This dirt that covered the body of slain Chao-Ahn would be the same that would cover her own body, and despite Althanea's reassurances, Tara really wasn't sure how far away that end would be. If it was the only way to slay Caleb, would Willow really kill her?

"What's wrong, Tara?" Willow asked. Tara turned to face her and realized that a few tears were trickling down her cheeks. Tara wiped them away with the back of her hand.

"It's nothing, it's just..." Tara squared her shoulders. "My mother died when I was 17. I was just thinking of her."

Willow set down the shovel and came over to Tara, putting her hand on Tara's shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said simply.

Tara gently smiled and rested her hand on top of Willow's for a moment. "Let's get back to work," she finally said.

So they returned to their grave-digging work, and as the sun remained frozen in the sky Tara and Willow methodically buried all the Potential Slayers, Willow murmuring a few words about them for Tara's benefit as they did so. Tara knew that Willow was shying away from the Scoobies, saving them for last.

Willow dissolved into tears a few more times as the bodies of Dawn and Anya went gently into the ground. Tara could barely believe what Willow told her of these two girls: one was a ball of mystical energy used to open a portal to a hell-dimension, and the other was a thousand year old ex-vengeance demon. Her mind was whirling with the fantastical stories erupting from Willow's lips, and if she didn't know Willow any better, she'd think she was insane. Willow and the other members of the Scooby Gang clearly lived in a different world than the rest of the human race, and their constant battle against evil went nearly unnoticed by the world at large.

"How many apocalypses did you avert?" Tara once asked.

"We honestly lost count," was Willow's reply. "Six? Eight? No more than ten."

They finally came down to the final three: Giles, Xander, and Buffy. Tara's body was shrieking in pain by this time, and it became harder and harder to lift her shovel into the eager earth. At her continued suggestion, the ground was soft and friable, yet every movement by then was agony. She hoped that Willow was deep enough within her own personal pain, whether physical or emotional, that she wouldn't notice.

So they crouched next to Buffy first, and Willow uncovered her face for Tara to see the blonde Slayer. "Trying to keep Buffy alive was like trying to keep a wave on the sand," Willow said. "This is the third time she's died. Xander brought her back the first time, after she'd been bitten by the Master and left to drown. I brought her back the second time, casting a resurrection spell for her." Tara's eyes widened. So that's how Willow did it. That's how Willow became the most powerful witch in the world in such a short time. Tapping into magics like that, time and again, always reaching, always pushing the barrier, too far, too fast. "I guess the third time is the charm. I won't be bringing Buffy back again."

Tara took one of Willow's hands in her own and lightly squeezed. Willow seemed to draw strength from that gesture, and continued in a low voice. "She introduced me to a different world. And it was so scary, so much of the time, but it was so necessary. Even before Buffy came, I knew that Sunnydale was an evil place. Weird deaths, mysterious disappearances, stories of monsters. With her protection, our graduating class had the lowest mortality rate ever!

"And she needed me. She was the first person I'd ever met who needed me so much, and I just bloomed. I had no idea how much I needed to be needed until she came along. At first it was just the computer stuff I helped with; Giles was adamant about me not 'working the field'. But then I started with the magics, and that helped Buffy even more. I found my purpose by her side, Tara. And life, though scary and unpredictable, life was good."

Small tears were trickling from Willow's cheeks, and then she clutched Tara's hand even tighter. "Here, let me show you," she said, and the two witches closed their eyes. It was fumbling, and slow, and jerked a bit through a parade of memories, but finally Tara saw what Willow wanted her to see, filled with amazement all the while at the sheer plucky spirit of her girl.

 _Buffy was sitting against a tree trunk on the high school campus and Willow was walking up to her. "Deep thoughts?" Willow asked, plunking herself down next to her best friend._

 _"Deep and meaningful," Buffy agreed._

 _"As in?" Willow probed._

 _"As in, I'm never getting out of here. I kept thinking if I stopped the Mayor or... but I was kidding myself. I mean, there is always going to be something. I'm a Sunnydale girl, no other choice."_

 _Willow's mind sparkled with her secret, for the delight it would give her friend. Conversationally, she said, "Must be tough. I mean, here I am, I can do anything I want. I can go to any college in the country, four or five in Europe if I want."_

 _Buffy's face fell a little. "Please tell me you're going somewhere with this?" she asked plaintively._

 _"No," Willow said, her glee bubbling over. "I'm not going anywhere."_

 _Buffy stared at the letter, turning it over in her hands. "UC Sunnydale?" she asked, incredulous._

 _"I will be matriculating with the Class of 2003."_

 _"Are you serious?"_

 _"Say, isn't that where you're going?" Willow's loyal heart burst as Buffy hugged her and the two of them tumbled to the sweet grass._

 _"I can't believe it! Are you serious? Ah, wait, what am I saying? You can't."_

 _Willow pouted. "What do you mean I can't?"_

 _"I won't let you." Buffy put on her 'I'm serious, Willow' face._

 _"Of the two people here, which is the boss of me?" Willow continued to bubble and shine._

 _"There are better schools," Buffy retorted._

 _"Sunnydale's not bad. A-and I can design my own curriculum."_

 _"Okay," Buffy temporized. "Well, there are safer schools. There are safer prisons. I can't let you stay because of me."_

 _Willow squared her soul, her new resolve, her revelation about to be revealed. "Actually, this isn't about you," she started. "Although I'm fond, don't get me wrong, of you." Inwardly, Willow grinned. Fond? Buffy saved her life, not just physically, but in every way possible. "The other night, you know, being captured and all, facing off with Faith. Things just, kind of, got clear. I mean, you've been fighting evil here for three years, and I've helped some, and now we're supposed to decide what we want to do with our lives. And I just realized that's what I want to do. Fight evil, help people. I mean, I-I think it's worth doing. And I don't think you do it because you have to. It's a good fight, Buffy, and I want in."_

 _And Buffy looked at her, and Willow knew that she would be with Buffy forever. She, Buffy, Xander, and Giles, they would always be family._

 _"I kind of love you," the Slayer said softly._

The vision over, Tara's eyes widened. Who is this girl? she wondered. She gets captured by Faith, if this is even the same Faith as before, and she decides she wants to stay? Could she have known how devastating this decision would end up being?

Tara remembered Angel's deathly pale face in the cemetery that night, _"I should warn you. You stay with this group of people too long, you're going to get yourself killed. Everybody else does."_ Who was left now for Willow?

"God, I'm going to miss her! How am I supposed to fight vampires without her?" Willow began crying again and Tara was snapped out of her own reverie, her amazement written plainly on her features. She pulled Willow into her arms, rocking her back and forth, never minding the pain rippling through her own body. The pain frightened Tara a little; it had never gone with her into the mindsurf before, and every hour she spent here with Willow, the worse it got. So Tara grit her teeth and comforted Willow, Willow who quickly pulled away. "Tara, you shouldn't let me do that," she said, wiping away her tears. "I don't want to hurt you."

"It's all right," Tara replied, trying to make her eyes lie along with her words. Once Willow had regained her composure, they lifted Buffy's body and placed it in the grave, then shovelled the dirt on top of her.

"Let me try something," Willow said as they finished and rested on their shovel handles. Tara watched as Willow closed her eyes, concentrating fiercely, softly biting her lower lip. In just another moment, a headstone appeared at Buffy's grave.

Tara walked over to it. "How did you do that?" she asked in wonder. She touched the top of it, then ran her fingers over the words, "Buffy Anne Summers. Beloved sister, devoted friend. She saved the world. A lot."

"Well, I paid attention to what you were doing with the shovels, so I decided to try it by myself," Willow answered with a fair amount of pride. "I mean, if someone can hack into the Sunnydale Police Department mainframe computer by the time they are twel..." Tara swivelled her head to look incredulously at the witch. "Ah, I mean, quick study," Willow swiftly amended. "Just get all focusy and poof!"

"That was incredible, Willow," Tara said. "I've never known anyone else who could do it!"

"Really?" Willow replied, an impish grin gracing her face. They looked at each other warmly for a few minutes, and then continued. As they moved on to the next empty space for yet another of Willow's friends, Tara was filled with wonder. How had Willow learned that so quickly? It had taken her years of study to manipulate memories in others. She found herself having to re-examine her initial view of the comatose witch. No small tale that she was the most powerful witch in the world. Tara almost shivered in anticipation, wondering what other things Willow would open her up to.

Only the bodies of the two most important men in Willow's life remained. They crouched by Giles next, and Willow spoke softly of her crush on the librarian, how he had become a father-figure in her largely parentally-abandoned life. Tara heard the anguish in Willow's voice as she spoke of her parents, and debated whether or not to tell Willow that Sheila and Ira were due to visit tomorrow. No, she had enough to deal with.

"Goodbye, Giles," Willow was saying with a lump in her throat. "I hope you've taught me everything I need to know. You always had all the answers, you knew just where to look. I don't remember if I ever told you this, but lately I'd been thinking of becoming a Watcher, like you. Well until Caleb blew up the Council building and all the members in it."

Willow stroked his cheek, then solemnly took his glasses from his face, took the handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned them. "Dear, dear, fussy Giles," she whimpered, and Tara took her hand again, squeezing in silent approval. "We used to think you wore tweed diapers. How wrong we were. You taught us more than just how to kill vampires and identify demons. You taught us that family, our family, was the most important thing. That the human race is worth saving, time and again. And that you loved us, even when Xander would pretend to do research and Buffy would insist on going on dates instead of slaying, and I would read the books you tried so hard to keep me from. You loved us so much, Giles."

Tara looked down at the man with the earnest face, then stroked Willow's hand. "W-will you sh-show me?" she stuttered, cursing herself for stumbling over the simple words.

Willow nodded and took both of Tara's hands in hers. They closed their eyes and Tara felt a weird sensation: Willow was flying through her memories with considerably more ease, and she alighted on one, then another: Tara could see Buffy, Xander, and Giles standing dejected in the school library, and each of them had on the expression that Willow hated most.

 _"Jeez, who died?" Willow joked. After being called a demon, she was being hugged into oblivion by Buffy, then Xander, and finally Giles..._

"Not that one," Willow murmured. "It would take too long to explain." Tara kept her eyes shut and saw more images whirling past, Giles as a demon, Giles cleaning his glasses, Giles singing at a nightclub in a surprisingly deep and wonderful voice, and finally Willow stopped again.

 _Giles was in the airport terminal, looking off into space. A welter of emotions ran confused through Willow's body; joy at finding Giles in time, consternation that he was leaving, and the secret, the deep secret burning within her._

 _They brought parting gifts for Giles. Anya stepped forward with a cheap convenience store apple pie. Oz lifted his pinkie finger, on which rested a little thimble-monster with squiggly arms. "Grr. Argh," he said._

So that's Oz. A surge of jealousy passed through Tara, but she kept her eyes closed. She didn't see Willow open her eyes and look at the nurse quizzically. The memory continued with

 _Willow smiled nervously as Giles hugged each of them. Inside, her heart was breaking, but she forced the fatal feelings down. She was leader of the Scooby Gang now, with Buffy dead, and it was her responsibility to keep the gang together. How then, could she let him just leave?_

 _"Willow. I don't know where to start," he was saying. And then he enfolded her in a hug, one of the very few he had given her throughout the years, and which she valued and treasured more than anything. If only her real father ever could have..._

 _"Well, maybe you shouldn't," Willow said tearfully, then she finally let him go. "I'm trying to be stiff-upper-lippy." As the Watcher walked away, Oz put his arm around Willow's shoulders, and Willow leaned into him._

Tara opened her eyes a little early, not wanting to see the rest of the memory, if there was to be any more with Oz in it. Willow had a question written all over her face, and Tara felt a little juvenile. "Thank you for sharing, Willow," the nurse finally said.

Having shared all they needed to, Willow and Tara solemnly heaved Giles' body to the open grave and placed him in it. Later they rested on their shovels again, Tara feeling about ready to die, but she couldn't stop helping Willow. There was only Xander left, and then they could rest.

"Tara?"

"Hmm?"

"Can you spontaneously make things in here?" Willow asked, sitting cross-legged on the ground and tugging at Tara to sit next to her.

"Not that I know of," Tara admitted, pressing herself close to Willow, still disturbed by her short glimpse of Oz. "My last patient, Peter Whitney, he built a garden, but he used bits and pieces of other memories to do it. It's like putting a puzzle together."

"Do you mind if I try something?"

"Not at all."

Tara looked at the redhead and her heart melted into even more smooshy piles of goo. The witch was so adorable when she was concentrating; she held her lower lip in her teeth, and her long eyelashes fluttered against her freckled alabaster cheek. Then Tara noticed a shimmering in the air by the head of Giles' grave, and she watched in open-mouthed astonishment as a headstone appeared. "Rupert Giles. Our mentor. Our friend. Our father."

"H-how?" Tara stammered.

Willow opened her eyes, smiled coquettishly, and said, "I'm not always so good with the keeping of the rules. I can usually find my way around anything."

The frank, matter-of-fact statement made Tara's heart beat all the quicker. Could it be true, then? Could Willow save her somehow? Could she really look forward to a life with Willow that didn't end in beheading?

Finally it was Xander in the last grave, and Willow seemed almost beyond tears. "I got mad at him earlier, you know," Willow was saying, "When I went to get him in the high school. Buffy wanted him out of this last battle, especially after Caleb blinded him in one eye. But he came back, and picked up his sword, and went and got himself killed." Tears were shining in her eyes. "He never could stay home, you know," she continued, sniffling. "He always had to help, even though he never took any martial arts training and we ended up having to rescue him a dozen times.

"But he always rescued us, too. I mean, Buffy would have died if not for him, him not staying at home like he should have. And he rescued me, time and again. And not always from the physical dangers, either.

"I was in love with him for the longest time. I think part of me will always be in love with him. He was my comfort food, my safe place, my home."

Once again the two witches clasped hands, and Willow, with ever increasing confidence, spun through a dozen memories of Xander, stopping here and there:

 _"I might need a parrot," Xander was saying._

 _Willow looked at him, and it was so hard! because one of his big beautiful brown eyes was covered_ in _gauze and tape and there was nothing she could do about it. There was no spell to bring eyes back once they'd been gouged by evil preachers._

 _"Huh?" Hadn't she been talking about_ cherry-flavoured _gelatin?_

 _"Well, to go with the eye patch, to really complete the look. I think I still have that costume from Halloween."_

 _And Willow remembered Giles' huge wizard hat he wore when celebrating Halloween at the Magic Box and Xander's costume that year._

 _"Yeah, and don't underestimate the impact of a peg leg. Maybe the hospital can hook you up with a nice one. Maybe they have a two body parts for the price of one kind of deal."_

 _And she was stroking Xander's_ thumb, _and remembering, always remembering his kindnesses, his strength, the way he always knew just what to say and do to make her feel better._

 _"Oh, do you know what the best part is? No one will ever make me watch Jaws 3D again."_

 _"Yeah, and," Willow gulped, and the tears that had been threatening to storm her cheeks suddenly boiled over. "You'll never have to..."_

 _"Oh, Willow." His voice was broken. "Please don't."_

And Tara was overcome with Willow's emotion for this man, but she hadn't finished, she was alighting upon another small memory, one that jabbed Tara with jealousy.

 _Willow was sitting on the edge of the cot, touching the side of Xander's face which had been bashed in by a love-crazed Spike. They were imprisoned in the factory, held hostage so she could perform a love spell, of all things. And as Xander began to stir, feelings of warmth began to course through her body as she remembered their first kiss; how satisfying it had been to finally, after so many years of wanting and waiting, to take his mouth with her own._

 _He woke and they succinctly went through their options, each one involving certain impending death at the fangs of Spike. Maybe she could understand Faith a little better; having to face death did make you want to..._

 _"We're not supposed to," she whispered, as her head bent closer to his body._

 _"Exemption for impending death situation," he murmured, and he reached his arm around her back as they kissed, and she put her arm around his shoulder to hold him close and for a moment, just for a moment, Willow was at peace._

As Tara watched Willow kiss Xander she was filled with even more astonishment at the strength of her girl. How had Willow remained alive all these years with such awful things that kept happening? She must hate the end of the school year, high school or college, because it always seemed that some extra big evil was brewing, calling for a showdown of some sort.

But she couldn't kid herself. The way Willow was kissing Xander in that memory, the way Willow felt about Xander as she did so, it burned Tara with jealousy. She told herself it was irrational, it was juvenile, she herself had had more and better kisses from Willow by now.

So it was with surprise that Tara opened her eyes to find Willow gazing right at her. "You're jealous," the witch said in wonder.

Tara dropped her hands as if she held live scorpions. "N-no, well, h-how did you know?"

"I felt it," Willow said, her eyes wide.

Tara was flabbergasted. No one, not her mother, not her grandmother, could ever feel the backwash of emotion during a memory sharing. Willow was the one sharing, the one opening up, and Tara could feel everything that she felt during that instance. But for Willow to climb through that little connection, the skin of their hands touching, and reach back into Tara's soul and feel what Tara was feeling? Impossible.

And Tara, while a little chagrined that Willow had found her out so easily, was filled with even more hope for her future. This witch was like no witch who had ever lived before.

And she was hers.

Tara could feel Willow staring at her as they finished shovelling the last bit of dirt over Xander's body. Those last shovels of dirt were infinitely hard for Tara's broken body, and she gratefully sunk to the ground when they were finished, watching as Willow concentrated, rows upon rows of headstones appearing, bearing the names of all her newly-buried friends.

Willow finally sat down next to her, and Tara leaned into her shoulder. She felt Willow's arm go around her as the redhead snuggled carefully into her. "Tara, will you remember all this? If I forget this all as I wake from the coma, you will at least remember, won't you? And if I forget, you will tell me, right?"

Tara looked up at Willow, at her emerald eyes gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. "I won't forget," she promised. "And if you do forget, I promise to remind you when the time is right. Now, dearest heart, are you ready to wake up?"

Willow made no movement, and Tara could feel her body trembling beside her. "I'm scared, Tara," she finally whispered.

And even though Tara knew the source of her fear through her glorious connection, she asked, "What are you afraid of, Willow?" Tara put her hand on Willow's blue-jeaned thigh.

"I'm afraid of the pain. I'm afraid of the emptiness. And, and I'm afraid I'll lose you," Willow replied, looking down at Tara. "I'm not gay, you know. I've never kissed a woman before you. But it's safe here, and you are so wonderful and warm, you're my angel, you're my saviour." And Willow kissed Tara again, her cheeks wet with her tears, and Tara melted into her, she needed this, these last few memories, just in case the worst happened, and Willow woke with no memory of this at all. As Willow kissed her, and as she kissed Willow back, she could sense, even deeper, the terror and fear that her girl felt at the threatened separation. As they finished kissing, Willow held Tara's forehead close, and kissed her once there as well, and stroked Tara's hair. "Breadcrumbs," she whispered.

Then Willow straightened, but continued to hold Tara close. "But on the outside, I'm straight," she continued. "I've even got a sometime boyfriend, though he left me, again, earlier this year."

Tara felt a surge of anger course through her at Willow's depiction of her last relationship, _how dare he treat my girl like that?_ but she tempered herself, and with a trembling heart she asked, "Do you love him?"

There was a short pause, and Tara realized with some surprise that she couldn't really hear what Willow was thinking anymore. Maybe she was getting too tired. Maybe Willow was blocking her. But Willow eventually answered, "I used to. But not anymore. Not for a very long time." Willow looked into Tara's glorious eyes. "I think I was waiting for you, Tara. I think we were always meant to be together."

Tara's heart leaped into her chest once again. Remembering what else Willow said she was scared of, Tara said, "I will help you with the pain as much as I can, and so will Althanea. But the emptiness, the void where your friends were, you will have to discover how to fill it on your own." Tara leaned over and kissed Willow softly. "As for me, I will never leave you. If, on the outside, you find that you cannot love me, be assured that I will always love you."

"Why, Tara?" Willow choked, turning Tara slightly to see her better. "Why do you love me?"

And whatever wall Willow had been building in her mind, to keep Tara from feeling her emotions and seeing her thoughts, Tara could glimpse behind that wall, and she saw Willow's torment. Somehow, this girl, this infinitely precious and most glorious girl, had begun to believe that she was unworthy of love, that her life was doomed to wrack and torture, a never-ending cycle of hunting and killing and slaying. There was no one in Willow's corner, no one to help her bear the burdens of leadership, no place where she could break down and be simply Willow. Her girl felt unloved, unwanted, undesirable. Tara simultaneously cursed the man who had done this to Willow, even as she answered Willow's question.

"It's what I was born to do," Tara simply replied, and shivered in ecstasy as Willow's lips came down on hers once more. They were both too exhausted to anything but kiss, and Tara could feel Willow's wild desperation. As they broke apart, Tara caressed Willow's face and whispered, "I will always be there for you, Willow."

Willow nodded and gulped, then wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. They sat, looking at each other, for long moments. "Shall we go outside, then?" Willow finally asked, getting up from the forgiving earth and then carefully helping Tara to her feet.

Tara nodded, and her heart, though beating sluggishly and blackened in her chest, soared with joy. This was it. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. The curtain was about to lift, and Willow was about to join her on the outside.

They walked, hand in hand, back to the glowing marble gateway by the majestic willow tree. As Tara looked at her love, standing there in the warm sunlight, glowing with purpose and intention, she knew this was a moment she would never forget. Willow was smudged with dirt, and sweaty, and tired, and the most beautiful thing Tara had ever seen.

There, standing before the gate, it's evanescent glow lighting them afire, Willow looked once more at Tara with trepidation. Tara read her fear, and closed the distance between them with a rush, and captured Willow's mouth with her own. Almost savagely she plundered Willow's mouth, feeling a desperation within herself. _What if this is the last?_ Willow mirrored her feeling, and clutched Tara tightly, and Tara moaned softly in pain and delight. Tara's hands plunged into Willow's hair, cupping her neck, tilting it this way and that so she could access every minute and beloved portion of her lovers mouth. She could feel Willow's hands on her back, on her waist, just under the hem of her shirt, stroking her bare skin. The pain, the pain was like wildfire in her veins, but Tara simply didn't care.

They finally broke apart and embraced each other, trying to get their frenzied breathing under control. "Go ahead, my love," Tara eventually whispered into Willow's ear. "The world awaits you, and I'll be right behind you." Willow looked at her once more, her gaze filled with love, and then she strode forward, and their entwined fingers reluctantly parted. As she put her long fingers over the handle. Willow looked back at Tara one last time.

"Thank you, Tara," the redhead simply said. Tara nodded, and Willow opened the doorway, and Tara could see through it to the tiled ceiling of Willow's hospital room. She watched as Willow straightened her back and took one step, then two, then she and the doorway disappeared.


	22. Awakening

**Chapter Twenty Two**

 **Awakening**

 _Tara. Tara. Tara. Tara. Remember Tara._

Willow repeated the mantra over and over as she approached the gleaming marble gateway, the one that led to consciousness and a new, uncertain life. She was leaving behind the safety of the black hole, the comfort of her mind-Sunnydale, all for a pair of mysterious blue eyes. Willow touched the handle and looked back once more at her saviour, wishing she could put all her myriad emotions into words, and that those words would come all nice and normal from her oft-babbling mouth. But looking into the eyes of her nurse, she realized that there was nothing she could say that would disclose her true feelings, no words could express the depth of gratitude she felt for Tara.

"Thank you, Tara," Willow murmured, unable to leave without saying something. Intoning Tara's name over and over in her mind, thinking of the radiant compassion the woman had shown her, the fantastic kisses they shared in the womb of the tree, the strength Tara gave her so she could bury her friends, Willow strode through the open door.

 _Tara. Tara. Tara. Tara. Remember Tara._

She was swimming through molasses, her muscles thick with languor and atrophy. Her eyes felt incredibly heavy. There was darkness all around her, a thick cloud of confusion and pain. And before she knew what was happening, a veil seemed to pass over her mind, even as she laboured to consciousness. Willow panicked, there was a name she was supposed to remember, there was something important to remember!

But like all dreams that are so exquisite when sleeping, that fade like starlight upon the birth of a new day, Willow felt something pass from her memory. She knew it was something beautiful, and something she should have remembered, and even as her eyelids trembled to open, even as she felt the first dull searings of pain through her body she mourned its loss without knowing what it was. The feeling of being in her body took hold of her, and she had no more room in her addled mind for clutching at the dream, it was gone, gone within the black hole of her memory, slid down the chute of the coma.

And she was saddened, without even knowing why.

Willow finally commanded her eyes to open, and with infinitely low flutterings they eventually obeyed. The room she peered into was unfamiliar, and dark, yet she could immediately smell hospital smells and knew where she was. She had spent a lot of time in the hospital this past year, bandaging up the Potentials after battles, visiting Xander...

 _Xander is dead..._

What?

Before she could panic entirely, she felt a warm hand encircle hers, and a face appeared in her view. Willow gasped a little at the face; it was a stranger, whose cheek bore three hideous scratches under a healing black eye. The stranger's hair was brown, and pulled back into a ponytail. At seeing Willow's eyes, the stranger's face cracked into a huge smile, one that warmed Willow's heart immeasurably. Looking into those eyes Willow felt a huge sense of loss, and it puzzled her. She was equally puzzled by her concern for this stranger, and she tried to lift her hand from her side, to touch that ravaged face.

"Wha-," Willow started to ask, but her voice was raspy and dry from disuse. She saw the woman move to a tray by her bedside and pour a glass of water. Then the woman went to the foot of the bed and lifted Willow up to a reclining position, then handed her the glass of water.

"Slowly, now," she said as Willow sipped the water.

Her voice sounded familiar, and Willow stared at her as she sipped. Everything seemed hazy and indistinct, and it seemed like her whole world had coalesced into this darkened little room. As she drank she looked around her, her puzzlement increasing. She had no personal effects, no greeting cards, no pictures, no flowers. Her window looked out into a dimly moonlit courtyard with a beautiful garden and waterfall. But, most puzzling of all was this woman who was dressed in a blouse and blue jeans yet acted like a nurse.

Her throat soothed somewhat, Willow tried again. "What happened to your face?" she softly asked, for she could see the pain in the other woman's eyes, and the demon-fighter within her emerged. _I just want to help people, Buffy._

 _Buffy is dead._

The woman sat down on a chair next to Willow, and Willow noticed how carefully she sat, and the heavy pendant that hung from her chest. Her eyes widened, and the disorientation and confusion surrounding her felt like a swirling vortex that would suck her into an alternate universe. "That's the amulet of Thespia," Willow said, recognizing the amber stone in the middle and the spokes radiating from it like the sun.

The woman was surprised. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but Willow continued, "What? Where am I?" Willow put down the empty glass and looked at her hands, the one with the IV, both with abraded knuckles. "Where are Buffy and Xander? Why isn't anyone here?"

The stranger was crestfallen. "Please, Willow, calm down," she urged, placing her hand on Willow's hands, and Willow felt a strange surge of warmth and compassion go through her. "I-I promise to tell you everything, but you must calm yourself. Please," she pleaded, and Willow leaned back against her pillow again, suddenly exhausted. Unbidden, her eyes began to close, and she fought against it. Too many questions, no answers, who was this woman, why...?

When Willow next came to awareness, she knew it was day, for warm pinkness suffused her eyelids. She slowly opened her eyes, worried about catching a ray of light right in the brain, but she needn't have worried. Someone had drawn the curtain, and the room was light and airy and pleasant with deflected sunlight. She was hungry, and thirsty, and aware. She dimly recalled waking during the night, a stranger beside her, and falling asleep once again. She remembered being confused, but now there was no confusion. A stark and terrible clarity had come to her while she slept, and memories assaulted her.

She had harnessed the white power of the scythe, and turned all the Potential Slayers into true Slayers. She had exited Wood's office to find her friends, to help them in their battle. She had turned the corner to the atrium, and then... and then...

 _Xander is dead._

He had been cut down protecting Dawn, the killing blow coming from his recently blinded side. And Dawn, poor little Dawn was laying on top of him, a sword sticking out of her chest. White seething fury had overtaken Willow, and she had run down a pocket of ubervamps and Bringers, and though she shot off spell after spell, devastating the ranks of them, they had overpowered her, and bitten her, and run her through with a sword, and crushed her skull to the ground.

Why wasn't she dead?

 _Where is Buffy?_

Willow looked around the room and saw the same stranger sitting on a brown couch, dozing lightly. She had scrubs on, a nametag that said 'Tara', and a stethoscope around her neck. The morning light was gentle on the woman's features, softening her ravaged face, and Willow felt a stab of envy. She had always been cursed with a body resembling a stick, and this woman had the curves that Willow had always wanted. Curious... she was wearing a heavy pendant, and Willow suddenly remembered recognizing it the night before. Why on earth was this woman wearing the amulet of Thespia? Who was she?

Willow lightly cleared her throat, hoping to get the woman's attention. The stranger sat up with a shot, then grimaced as she lightly rubbed her neck. "Good, you're awake," she said, coming to Willow's side, taking one of Willow's hands in her own, rubbing it gently.

"Where is Buffy?" Willow asked.

The woman looked devastated. "Sweetie, I know you have a lot of questions, but can I ask you a few things first?"

Willow nodded and tried to sit up, gasping as pain in her legs bit her. The woman went to the foot of the bed and raised Willow once again to a reclining position, handing her a glass of water. "Now," the woman said, "Could you tell me your name?"

"I'm Willow Rosenberg," Willow replied, sipping on the water. "What's your name?"

"I'm Tara Maclay," she said, and her voice was a bit sad. "I'm your nurse."

"Nice to meet you, Tara Maclay," Willow said, stretching out her hand. Her nurse

 _Tara!_

smiled and gently shook it.

"The pleasure is mine, Willow," Tara replied. Willow noticed that Tara held on to her hand a little longer than was generally socially acceptable, but she also found that she didn't mind all that much. The woman had soft and delicate long-fingered hands, and she seemed to move with an inherent grace that Willow found simultaneously intoxicating and unnerving. Willow also noticed that Tara didn't want to look her in the eyes for a long period of time before looking away, blinking and blushing. It puzzled her, and Willow vowed to get to the bottom of it.

Tara asked her a few more questions, her parents' names, her home address, her birthday, who the President of the United States was. Willow tried to be patient, but finally she could answer no more. "Could you please tell me what's going on, Tara?" she pleaded. "Where is Buffy? Where are my get well cards? What day is it?"

Tara told her, and Willow's face slackened in shock. "Two weeks?" she asked. "I've been in a coma for two weeks?"

Tara nodded even as she moved to the cart to take Willow's blood pressure and temperature. Dazed, Willow let her nurse take the measurements, and as she was musing on the lost time, she noticed an older man walk into the room.

"Well, Willow Rosenberg, good to see you in the land of the living," the man said, striding up to her bed, squeezing Tara's shoulder once as he walked by. "I'm Dr. Ethan Daniels," the man continued, standing by her bed. "Now that you're awake, we need to do all sorts of fun neurological tests to make sure your brain didn't go all wacky while you were asleep."

"Is he always like this?" Willow asked Tara plaintively. Tara merely laughed and pulled out Willow's chart, making some notes. Tara was moving slowly, and occasionally a wince would cross her face, a wince that both Willow and the doctor seemed to notice.

"Now, young lady," the doctor continued, "Your parents are coming to visit later on today, so I'd like to run a neurological series on you before they get here. How does that sound?"

Actually, it sounded scary, and Willow panicked a little. "Can Tara be with me?" she asked.

Dr. Daniels smiled. "Of course," he replied. "You don't have anyplace better to be, do you, Tara?" he joked.

"Well, the boys at the club really wanted to see me mud wrestle," she quipped back, "so I'm glad to have a ready-made excuse." The doctor barked out a laugh as she said this, and Willow relaxed, finding the banter to be incredibly soothing

 _(I laugh in the face of danger. Then I hide until it goes away)_

and knowing she wouldn't have to do the tests alone.

First Tara helped her eat a mushy breakfast of lukewarm oatmeal and orange juice. She thought she was ravenously hungry, but Willow found she couldn't finish what little she had been given. She also found her arms and fingers to be trembling, and after she slopped for the second time, Tara came and quietly fed her the rest of her meal. In a quiet moment after she had eaten, Willow gathered her courage for the last time, she just had to know, "Tara, where is my friend Buffy?"

Tara must have sensed the desperation underlying her voice, for she sat down again and tucked wayward wisps of brown hair back behind her ears. She looked straight at Willow, and something within Willow clicked, and she knew truth. _There is a wall there, but why?_ "Willow, you and Faith were the only ones who survived the implosion," she said softly. "Buffy is dead."

And Willow knew. Somehow she knew, even through the cloud of coma. And as Willow thought back to the first time she lost Buffy, she willed herself to tremble and shake in anguish, for tearing sobs to wrack her loyal body, but all she felt was an odd sense of peace. How could this be? She closed her eyes and recalled the dreadful memory of Buffy's grave, but then her eyes flew open.

"What is it?" Tara asked.

"It's gone," Willow said breathlessly.

"What's gone?"

"Buffy's headstone. I was just thinking back to the last time I lost Buffy," and Willow's voice thickened and choked her. Holding back a sob, Willow continued, "We put up a headstone for her, but it's not there anymore. I can see her grave, and the stones I left for her, but where is the headstone?"

Tara's eyes had been getting wider until Willow looked at her, and her nurse scuttled back behind the wall in her eyes. "I-I d-don't know, Willow," Tara stammered. "Some p-people lose memories in comas, you'll p-probably get it back."

Even as she wanted to blindly rage, to produce a soulful fury at losing her friends, she continued to feel an odd sensation, a memory almost, that made her loss less terrible. She wanted to get angry at herself, she wanted to know why she couldn't cry over them, she should cry, shouldn't she? She looked closely at Tara and Willow could see that Tara was hiding something. She knew too much, and she wore the Amulet of Thespia, and her face was ravaged. Why?

But Dr. Daniels returned, and there was an ECG, and an MRI, and a CT scan, and other abbreviated names she didn't really care to understand at the moment. She was falling into despondency, and as every hour passed she realized more and more that she was alone, that this time wasn't like last time she woke from a coma. It seemed so long ago now, that five years, and she sighed as she thought of Oz. He had been with her last time, he had been there, stroking her hand and acting as her buffer for the doctors. Where was he now? She'd been in a coma for two weeks, it was plenty of time to find her. Sure, they had broken up, again. Wouldn't he come now? He wasn't dead, too, was he?

 _(You didn't find his body in the school, did you?)_

Now where did that thought come from?

As Tara was wheeling her back to her room, Willow had another million questions to ask, but the pain and exhaustion was making her lightheaded. Tara seemed to sense this as she rolled Willow's bed back into place (they didn't even let her get into a wheelchair). "Willow, honey, do you need anything for the pain?" she asked softly.

"No," Willow said muzzily, _I'll never alter my consciousness again._ "Just need to sleep..." She closed her eyes and clutched at Tara's hand.

"Then sleep, dear heart," she heard Tara say. "I'll be here when you wake."

But it wasn't Tara's voice that eventually brought her out of the depths some hours later, it was the strident voice of her mother. As Willow opened her heavy-lidded eyes, feeling thick and logy, she first noticed that Tara was sitting next to her bed, delicately washing Willow's face. Her mother must have been just beyond the curtain, maybe in the hallway, for Willow could hear every word.

"I want to know where the money came from!" Sheila was saying.

Willow could hear the soothing voice of Dr. Daniels try to calm her mother down. "I assure you, Mrs. Rosenberg, that the money was an anonymous donation made for your daughter's care. There is plenty to provide for her care."

"What about all the injuries you told us about? She hardly looks hurt at all. Are you trying to bill for treatments that never took place?"

Dr. Daniels voice was positively frosty, "Madam, we have a dedicated nurse who has worked day and night with your daughter. I assure you that the initial reports were not exaggerated. Would you like to look at Willow's file?"

Willow looked at Tara, whose ears had flushed a slight red, and Willow realized that it was Tara they were talking about. Tara kept deftly washing Willow's neck and behind her ears, using very soothing motions. "Tara?" she asked.

"Mmm?" Tara murmured, rinsing the cloth in a basin of warm water. Willow couldn't stop looking at her, at her slow and graceful movements, and she hated to break their close communion, but she couldn't bear to hear her mother's voice any more. It only served as a painful reminder of the last fifteen years. It seemed that once Willow had discovered that she was remarkably smart, her parents seemed to think she needed no further parenting. No discipline, no rules, no interest in her life other than her perfect grades. At this moment, seeing her parents was the very last thing that Willow wanted.

"What money are they talking about?" Willow asked softly. Tara was continuing to wash her in long, languorous strokes that almost made Willow blush, alternately patting her dry with a soft towel.

"There was an anonymous donation made for your care when you were discovered in the Los Angeles hospital. I later found out it is from the Watcher's Council."

Willow's eyes widened. "You know about the Watcher's Council?"

"Mmm," Tara agreed, drawing the cloth down Willow's arms, then gently blotting the area between Willow's knuckles. Willow waited, and she could hear her mother continuing to protest something or other to the poor doctor. Her curiosity was hungry, and this woman, her nurse, was a complete mystery to her. "You actually do have another visitor who wants to see you," Tara finally continued.

"Who?" Willow asked, wondering who on earth was left to care about her?

"Althanea," Tara replied, shuffling slowly to the other side of Willow's bed and starting to wash Willow's other hand.

"Althanea," Willow repeated, shocked. "Althanea from Devon, Althanea? Althanea the witch, Althanea?"

Tara smiled at her and Willow felt her heart leap in her chest. "Yes," she agreed. "She is here to help you do some healing, like you did after the gnarl demon attacked you?"

Willow's jaw dropped. How did Tara know about the gnarl demon? Just how much did this stranger know about Willow's private life? But there was something else she realized, something that her mother mentioned... "Wait, Tara, what about the rest of the healing? I know how badly hurt I was, I was run through with a sword and bitten by a vampire, for crying out loud." She looked at Tara's face, waiting to see the look of disbelief she would surely have in hearing Willow's story

 _(Vampires, that's a good one, Willow, now let's get you to a psychiatrist)_

a look she had gotten time and again from her parents, yet Tara was calm. "And," Willow continued, and she lifted her hand out of Tara's ministering grasp and pulled down the top hem of her gown, craning her neck to look at her shoulder. There was a slim scar there, and nothing more. Impossible. The uber vamp had been attempting to rip out her jugular. Buffy, with her Slayer healing, could have done it, but not Willow. Not in only two weeks. "Did Althanea help?"

Tara bowed her head, and turned away her glorious blue eyes. "No," she whispered.

 _(She's looking away again)_ Willow probed further, gingerly lifting up the blanket and her robe to look at her abdomen. She remembered, oh she remembered the slash of the Bringer's knife as he nearly eviscerated her, how the sword thrust into her from behind, how she was borne into the dust, her head cracking mercilessly against the tiled floor...

"Willow, no," Tara whispered, her voice near tears.

Willow painfully rose up and uncovered her legs. They were still covered in bandages, and she could verily feel the hurt underneath them. So there had been unnatural healing done, if some injuries were completely closed and others were open. She carefully placed the blanket back and stared at her nurse. "Who are you?" she softly asked. "If Althanea didn't do this, did you?"

Tara finally looked at her in the eyes and Willow could again see that something there, some secret, hidden and painful. Willow could almost see something else, a faint flicker of strong emotion, much stronger than the normal compassion a nurse typically showed for a patient. Willow could see the spokes of the Amulet of Thespia poking through her scrubs as Tara leaned forward, and Willow clutched at her hand. "Tara, please tell me!"

The words seemed to rock the nurse backward, and Willow could see tears welling up in her eyes. "I did it," the nurse finally said. "I had to, or..." and Tara looked away again.

"But how?" Willow was interrupted by her mother's cavalier entrance.

"Oh, good, you're awake!" Sheila crowed, coming to Willow's side. Willow watched her mother approach, and she also watched Tara from the corner of her eye, as her nurse took the basin of water and fled their revealing conversation, drawing the curtain behind her. As she was leaving, Willow desperately wanted to ask her to stay, she didn't want to be left alone with her mother, she had a million questions for Tara, but nothing, absolutely nothing to say to the woman who brought her into the world.

"Hey, mom," Willow said weakly, resting her head back against the pillow. She didn't look at her mother, she stared through the curtain instead, and was pleased to see by Tara's shadows that she hadn't left the room; she was rinsing the basin in the sink and washing her hands.

 _Stay, Tara, stay...Please._

"Are you all right? Do you remember what happened?" Sheila asked, sitting down on the chair Tara so recently vacated.

 _Yes, mom, I remember what happened. But will you believe me? No. After all, witchcraft was just another 'phase' I was going through. Do I finally tell you the truth?_

"Not really," Willow lied. "Bits and pieces," she temporized.

"Must be that bump on the noggin," her mother teased. "Seriously, someone was certainly inept somewhere along the line. We didn't hear about your accident until a week after it happened, and then everywhere we phoned people told us you were dead."

"Come on, mom," Willow said, exasperated. "All of Sunnydale imploded and you didn't hear about it until a week later?"

Sheila sat back, a little huffy. "We were in Israel, Willow," she coldly reminded her daughter. "I guess I assumed you could stay out of trouble while we were out of the country. I should have known. You and that Bunny friend of yours always manage to get into trouble. We finally do get back in and that sham doctor over there had told us a huge list of what happened to you: a broken skull, puncture wounds, weird bites. Then I get here and you're barely hurt at all. I'm sure that man is just padding his report to get more money out of us."

Willow descended into icy depths of fury. _Broken skull, puncture wounds, weird bites... How much did Tara do? And how dare my mother trivialize it?_ Willow recalled the tremendous amounts of strength and willpower it took for her to heal those few gashes the gnarl demon inflicted on her and she wondered, oh she wondered, how much did Tara do? From the corner of her eye she could see Tara peek around the curtain, and her nurse's face was livid. Willow assumed she had heard the entire conversation and she was glad. Seeing Tara there gave her just enough support. "For one thing, mother, you are not paying for any of this. The Watcher's Council is."

Sheila's mouth dropped open. Willow had never spoken back to her quite this coldly before.

"Secondly, I was seriously hurt. But Tara," and Willow paused, as Tara violently shook her head, silently pleading with Willow. Understanding, Willow shifted gears, "I mean, I'm a witch, mother. I know how to heal myself."

"Not witchcraft again, Willow?" Sheila said, getting up from her chair. Tara hastily departed again and Willow wished she could follow her.

Not now. Not when there are lessons to be taught.

"Yes, mother, witchcraft," Willow said. "You've never believed me, not even the time that demon made you try to burn me at the stake!" Calm. Triumphant. In the face of her mother's shock she was Serenity Incarnate. "In all the years since, didn't you ever wonder how I could do the things I do?"

"What things?" her mother shot back. "Hang about with your good-for-nothing friends? Slip your grades? Endlessly fantasize about a world teeming with demons and vampires? You need some serious help, Willow, and it's obvious that I have spent too much time away from you." Her mother came back to the bedside, and Willow seethed in anger at her words. "I guess this means I should stay here and try to find you a competent therapist, if one exists in this little town," Sheila continued. Then her face melted in concern, and Willow raged all the more. "Honey, don't you think it's time you gave all this up? Hmm? Especially with all your friends gone."

"What do you know, mom?" Willow asked, desperate. "What do you know about my friends?"

"We did look for you, Willow," Sheila said, finally near tears herself. "And everywhere we looked we were told you were dead. There was a list, Willow, and your name was on it, along with the names of that Harris boy, Bunny Summers, your boyfriend Daniel, and dozens of others. Just what were you doing there?"

"Oz?" Willow choked. It felt like someone punched her in the chest. "Oz is dead, too?" But he left her, he had left her again, and finally she was content. She didn't need him anymore, or their sham relationship. Why was he in Sunnydale? Was he trying to find her? Was he trying to help?

"I was surprised to see his name," Sheila continued. "I remember you saying that he broke up with you again. I always thought you could find someone better than that goyim guitar player."

Inwardly, Willow cringed. There was no one better. She had looked for years, every time that Oz broke her heart she would look, but every guy she saw was no better than he. Increasingly over the last year, Willow had begun to look elsewhere for the affection she craved, had remembered her first crush in junior high

 _(Her name was Sandra, and she had beautiful legs)_

and allowed that memory to fill her with hope instead of revulsion. For just a little while, Willow dared to look at girls as well as guys to fill her raging need.

It would have to be someone kind. Someone daring. Someone understanding. For she, Willow Rosenberg, lived on Earth but in a world far different from most other mortals. She tapped into the energies of the universe, she was one with all the chakras of the earth, she weaved the energies of fire, air, earth, water, and spirit in an endless tapestry depicting her endless fight of good against evil. She was all this, yet she was more.

For she was also simply Willow. Who liked to sip mochas and eat pizza and surf the Internet. She liked watching sappy romances with Dawn, and she liked reading obscure texts and she liked cooking. Wasn't there anyone who could understand her fully, see past the witchery to the ordinary girl within? Or oppositely, could anyone see the normal girl on the outside and still believe the powers she held in her grasp?

And for some reason, she thought of Tara. She was a stranger, a mere nurse, yet she bore the Amulet of Thespia, and did something to help Willow heal, and spoke of Althanea, and had the softest hands Willow had ever felt, the bluest eyes Willow had ever known. And she hid behind a wall, and some primal force in Willow wanted to tear that wall down, to see what her eyes truly wanted to see.

What did she mean to Tara?

What did Tara mean to her?

And there was a maddening glimmer in her mind, a phantom of a memory, a ghostly wisp of something so beautiful, so right.

 _Breadcrumbs_

"Willow, are you even listening to me?"

Willow was snapped from her reverie, harshly brought back into this most awful argument with her mother. Oz was dead. But that grief didn't swallow her as she thought it might. She forced herself to look at the truth; that Oz had been dead to her all year. They were done, finished.

 _"We're not the same people we were in high school, Willow," Oz was saying._

They were standing on the porch of Buffy's house, and the fall air was chill. Willow shrugged, the thin scars on her recently gnarl-ravaged stomach pulling slightly.

"I know, Oz."

"We've just been going through the motions," he continued. It could have come out hurtful, but it didn't. Oz was just contemplative, and a little bit sad.

"Yes," Willow agreed. "And it's not fair to either of us, is it?"

"You deserve so much more than I can give you," Oz said, and he lightly touched her hair and cheek. "And we both know it."

Willow hugged her boyfriend of five years, and was almost surprised by the lack of passion. It had been cooling for ages, he had left her again and again, and she had taken him back again and again, more for a sense of security than anything else for the love had gone a long time ago. He could never commit, and finally, finally she didn't want him to. It was the band he loved, and being a werewolf, and chasing futile dreams. He could never be satisfied with what he had.

"Be well, Oz," she whispered.

"Willow!" her mother said again, and Willow took a deep breath as if to shoot back yet another blistering epithet at her condescending mother, to finally lay bare all her anger, yet she suddenly deflated. Then she smiled, a very low smile. Her mother simply wasn't worth it. That truth hurt, almost as much as her legs, but Willow realized she could bear it.

She felt strong. Capable. She didn't need to show her mother any magic to prove its existence. She didn't need to have a boyfriend to prove she was worthy of love. There wasn't a single thing she needed that her mother could provide, and Willow knew that Sheila knew it.

"The house is gone," Willow said softly. "Where are you staying?"

Sheila sat down once more and sighed. "I guess we should talk about this now, we wanted to wait until you were stronger, but...I have been offered tenure at the University in Jerusalem, so your father and I are moving there. Would, would you like to join us?" she asked, not really meaning it.

Willow took her mother's hand, suddenly very proud. "That's great, mom," she said wholeheartedly. "That's a wonderful opportunity for you." She smiled wryly at the thought of being stuck in Jerusalem with her parents and continued, "No, mom, I'll stay here." _(For there is a mystery here, and her name is Tara, and I am the last member of the Scooby Gang. That's what we do. Solve mysteries. And eat pizza. And laugh in the face of danger.)_ "Where is dad, anyway?" Willow looked around the room. She knew her father was a little light on the parental togetherness thing, but this was a little insane.

"He's dealing with some paperwork," Sheila replied. "I guess if this... this Council... is prepared to pay for your medical bills, and with us having to move and buy a new house, I suppose... we could let them." Sheila looked a trifle sheepish. "I mean, they aren't going to force you into indentured service, are they?"

Willow chuckled. "No, mom," she said. _They'll probably ship me all over the globe to put out evil fires, though, but you don't need to know that._

Her father did come into the room then, and Willow could see Tara peek once more around the curtain, just to check on her. The obvious concern in her nurse's face warmed Willow's heart.

"Heya kiddo," Ira said, coming to Willow's side and awkwardly giving her a sideways hug.

"Hey, dad."

Silence reigned in the room as the three adults looked at each other. It was thick and uncomfortable, and with a great pang, Willow missed the bantering of her dear friends. Tears began to threaten behind her eyes, but she wouldn't let them loose. Not here. Not with her parents watching.

For half an hour she endured their idle chitchat, their talk of Israel and the house they were going to buy. They didn't mention Sunnydale or Willow's friends again. Her knuckles got whiter and whiter as she gripped her bedsheets, willing them to leave; it was taking all of her strength to keep from collapsing in front of them. Finally Tara returned, took in Willow's ashen expression in one glance and smoothly said, "Willow needs to rest now."

Ira squeezed her hand and Sheila pecked her on the cheek and, promising to write, they were gone. Tara followed them out the door, then gently shut the door behind them. Willow's jaw hurt from keeping it clenched for so long, and she waited for Tara to return to her.

They needed no words. Tara sat on the edge of Willow's bed and opened her arms. Willow crumpled; she leaned forward and buried herself in Tara's welcoming embrace, and felt Tara's arms go around her, so tight. She could feel the spokes of the amulet poking her breasts, she could feel Tara's palms on the back of her robe, she could feel...

Love.

Impossible.

Could Willow truly feel love again? Her very purpose in existing seemed obliterated in that last terrible battle against the First. Her mother's almost casual revelation of all her dead friends smacked of the uncaring aloofness she had suffered at the hands of her parents her whole life. With all of them gone was there anything left to live for?

Willow broke down, sobbing. She buried her head in Tara's shoulder, her fingers convulsing on the thin material of Tara's scrubs. As she vented her deep heartache, the yawning emptiness that swelled inside her, consuming her from within, she could hear Tara whispering softly to her, gentle endearments. She had never been held like this, and again something in her mind nagged at her. This seemed far too familiar, and the longer that Tara held her, the longer she felt the softness of Tara's breasts against hers, the more confused Willow became. She could feel a tightness in her chest, a strange and hurtful joy, and as Tara continued to hold her, showering her in waves of compassion, Willow finally stopped thinking of her friends and enjoyed the exquisite feeling of being held so protectively. Long after her weeping subsided she remained in Tara's compassionate embrace, finding in her nurse a peace and strength she had always longed for.


	23. Breadcrumbs

**Chapter Twenty Three**

 **Breadcrumbs**

Tara was so tired she could barely get her key into her front door. When she finally had the door open she stood, holding the doorframe for a moment, then crossed into the front hallway, laying down her keys and shutting the door carefully behind her. She could hear Althanea puttering in the kitchen; she was humming a Beatles song and Tara could see that the television was turned on to the BBC. Smiling, Tara shuffled into the kitchen.

It was obvious that Althanea had just woken from her all-day nap. Her caramel-coloured and normally bouncy hair was flying away on one side and flat on the other. The British witch had stayed in the trance with her, holding the invisibility spell until Tara finally came awake at four in the morning. Willow woke shortly afterwards, but only for a little while, and when Willow slept again, Tara had driven her jet-lagged and exhausted visitor home, only to change into her scrubs and return to the hospice.

Althanea looked up from her perusal of Tara's fridge as Tara shambled into the room. "You look right knackered, dear," Althanea said, waving Tara into a chair as if she were the owner of the kitchen. "Sit down and I'll make you some supper. Would you like tea?" She didn't wait for an answer, simply took the teapot and filled it then plunked it back on the stove.

Tara gratefully sank into the proffered chair, the irony not lost on her. She found herself almost surprised at the familiar comfort she felt with this almost-stranger, but the bonds of sisterhood were strong. She chuckled at Althanea's flyaway hair and the grey sweats with Oxford emblazoned on the backside. "Did you sleep well?" Tara asked, yawning.

"Gods, yes," Althanea admitted. "Though your neighbour is a bloody git. I could handle the sound of the mower, but not the screechings of Led Zeppelin." She rustled through the fridge a little more, clucking in disapproval at the hummus and the fresh veggies and soy milk. "Do Americans make decent pizza?" Althanea asked.

Tara laughed, and pointed to the phone. Tacked up by the phone was the number of a local pizza joint, expensive but incredibly delicious. "Ooh," Althanea said, running her fingers through her hair as she perused the menu. "The Canadian?" she asked, looking at Tara. "You have a Canadian pizza in California?"

"Back bacon, two kinds of cheese, fresh tomatoes," Tara said, smiling. "It's one of my favourites."

"Done, then," Althanea said, calling in the order, also ordering wings, breadsticks, and Coke for delivery.

"Are we feeding an army?" Tara asked, hearing the kettle whistle but quite unable to rise from her chair. She commanded her muscles to move, but they evidently weren't paying attention to her anymore. Her every muscle was sore, and her head was pounding in a dull ferocity.

"You need to get some meat back on those bones," Althanea chided, pointing to different canisters of tea for Tara to nod her approval. She placed a bag of Lemon Zinger in a cup, filled it with the steaming water and gave it to Tara.

"Thank you," Tara murmured, holding the warm cup in her hands, sniffing the tea deeply. She closed her eyes and felt the older witch go behind her and start to rub her shoulders. "Ah," she moaned as her guest gently massaged her aching shoulders. "You don't have to..." she began to protest.

"Shush, you," Althanea replied. "Now, tell me. How much did Willow remember?"

Tara sighed and blew on her cup of tea. "Everything up to the point where she lost consciousness. She remembered being surrounded by Bringers and vamps, being attacked by them, but when she hit her head she lost everything else until she woke this morning." Tara gasped as Althanea found a particular knot and lightly kneaded it.

"So she remembers nothing of Caleb, of what you and she did in her mind?"

"Nothing." Tara had known it was possible, had warned Willow that she may not remember, but it still hurt. _(Hurt like someone driving a railroad spike through my heart.)_ Their time together was so incredibly sweet, so warm and nurturing and Tara wished yet again that she could have just stayed there forever. What need had they of the outside world, when they had each other? She and her love, they could have stayed an eternity under that willow tree, a million journeys of discovery both physical and mental. They would have had time for more than lips, they could have...Tara blushed as she recalled what happened under the willow tree.

"Hmm," the witch replied. Tara heard something in her voice and drew her back around the chair so she could look at her.

"What is it?" Tara asked.

Althanea sat down in a chair across from her and ran her hands through her hair once again. "She'll need to have that knowledge before the end," she finally admitted. At Tara's grimace, Althanea continued, "You weren't going to tell her, were you? About what you did?"

Tara shook her head. "I don't think it's entirely necessary. If she knew just how much..." and her voice trailed off. She thought of the demon's claws ripping open her sternum, she thought of dragging her tired cells across the barrier to Willow's body, she thought of the heaviness of the Amulet of Thespia, the amulet she could never take off.

"Tara," Althanea said, and Tara lifted her eyes to meet those of her guest. "I know you want to minimize Willow's pain, especially as she has suffered so much. But to trivialize what you have done, what this girl has done to you, that's wrong." Tara watched as Althanea's hand came to her neck and pulled out the amulet from underneath her scrubs, and she winced as she did so. There was blood on the spokes again. "Tara, there can be no inequality here. No lies. Only truth. You keep hiding things from Willow, it will only lead to disaster."

Tara's eyes blurred with tears, and she angrily wiped them away. They were silent for a few moments, and Tara thought about Althanea's words. She was just trying to be a superhero again. All stiff upper-lippy, as Willow would say. To pretend that nothing really was wrong, that was what she was good at. Could she really learn to just be herself, to show the same range of emotion as a regular human being? Did she really have to always hide behind a wall, a pretty wall she painted with pictures of glowing health and enthusiasm when she was really dying inside?

What was the alternative? To let Willow in? Really and truly? She had never let anyone in. Ever. And though she yearned to follow Althanea's advice, Tara wasn't sure if she actually could. "I can't make her remember," Tara finally admitted.

"Unless I'm completely mistaken about your families abilities, yes, you can," Althanea replied, gently. "I have very limited gifts of the mind. You, on the other hand, have access to every mind trick available. Sending people to sleep, making people forget things, planting false memories, every single facet of unconsciousness is the realm of your particular gifts. Had your mother never taught you these things?"

Tara immediately thought back to the hospital, to her conversation with Donny. _"Mom died before she could give you the last two lessons."_ One lesson had been how to use the lifeforce of a fellow human to heal wounds that were not supernaturally inflicted. What would the other have been? And would her brother ever forgive her and teach it to her?

The thought paralyzed Tara. "She needs to have the information, Tara," Althanea quietly continued. She must have noticed something on Tara's face, for she continued, "There's something else. What is it?"

"Willow found out about Oz," Tara said timidly.

"What did she find out?" Althanea asked, getting herself a cup of tea.

"That Oz is dead, too. His name was on the list. You didn't tell me that," she said, almost accusingly. Tara immediately wished she could take her words back; it's not like her strange guest had to tell her absolutely everything.

"Oz isn't dead," Althanea said, looking straight at Tara.

What? Tara's jaw dropped. "But the list?" Tara stammered.

"The search and rescue effort was haphazard and dangerous. It was easy for the Council to insert Daniel's name on the list, just as they did Willow's. They have their reasons for hiding him, just as they hid her. Oz has been captured and taken to England."

"Captured?" Tara repeated.

"Oz is a werewolf, Tara," Althanea said softly, sitting down next to her, stirring honey into her tea.

Willow fell in love with a werewolf? My girl was sleeping with a werewolf? "I don't understand," Tara replied plaintively, her mind whirling.

"As I understand, Oz was bitten some years ago. For a while he did all he could to resist the lycanthrope, to learn how to control it. He even traveled to Tibet to learn meditation techniques from the monks. But as the years went by he began to find other reasons for embracing his wolf nature. He left Willow because she was getting too close to the truth, to finding out about what he did during the wolf moon."

"How do you know all this?" Tara asked. Did this witch know everything?

Althanea looked a little chagrined. "I've been keeping an eye on Willow for years," she admitted. "Willow has access to tremendous power and we had to be sure she wouldn't do anything bad with it. She doesn't know how often our coven scried on her."

"You were scrying on me, too, weren't you?" Tara asked quietly. "When you found out how much I was taking?"

"Yes, dear," Althanea responded, looking carefully at Tara.

"Why?" Infinitely soft.

Now it was Althanea's voice that broke. "Tara, we just wanted to help you. From the moment our coven knew that it was your destiny to heal Willow we looked in on you. God," Althanea choked. Tara looked at her, tears swimming in her own eyes, hearing something in the other woman's voice she rarely heard at all.

"We love you, Tara," Althanea finally admitted. "You can't imagine how much. You are so precious, so kind, so self-sacrificing, how could we not fall in love with you? We wanted to spare you pain. After all you've been through, we only want you to feel love." Althanea roughly rubbed her eyes, and her face steeled. "Believe me, Tara, there's not a single one of us who wouldn't die for you," she growled.

Tara rocked back, the words thudding deep into her chest, searing their way into her memory, filling her with a warmth she had never felt before. Maybe this is what Willow felt. This sense of family. Of belonging. Of being precious, valued, needed. "You'd die for me?" she repeated, hating to need the reassurance, but the concept was so foreign to her, so wonderful, she just had to ask.

"You bloody well believe it. Right, then. Have they driven to Canada to get that pizza?"

After devouring most of the pizza and wings Tara found herself almost asleep in her chair. Althanea was channel-surfing when Tara reluctantly told her she was heading off for some much-needed sleep. "Do you need anything?" she asked her guest.

"Not a thing, dear," Althanea replied. "Go to sleep, I'll see you in the morning."

To her vast surprise and delight, Tara slept the entire night away without any hideous dreams from Caleb, without the pain waking her. When she woke she felt like a new woman, and she smiled and chirped as she got ready for work. She had no idea when Althanea went to bed; she couldn't imagine her guest was that tired after sleeping all day so she tried to be quiet as she showered and ate breakfast. With a strange smile on her face, she obstinately avoided her usual oatmeal and ate leftover pizza instead.

She heard Althanea come down the stairs as she was lacing her shoes. "You look much better," Althanea remarked, looking Tara up and down. "I like your scrubs."

"Yummy sushi," Tara agreed. "Do you want to see Willow today?"

"Absolutely," Althanea responded. "When can I come by?"

"I'll have her ready for you at one-ish. Will you take a cab, or should I have someone pick you up?" she asked a little timidly.

"Heavens. I'll ring a taxi. Now go have a good morning."

Tara turned to exit, and as she glanced outside she saw the empty rabbit cage on the porch and heaved a small sigh. Althanea heard it and said softly, "Remember what we talked about, Tara."

Tara quirked a small smile at her and said, "I'll remember."

It was a delicious morning with air from both mountain and sea mingling in every breath. Tara inhaled deeply as she drove to the hospice. _(They'd die for me.)_

(Nobody's ever said that to me before.)

Tara pulled in to her usual spot and walked with a light step into the hospice, through the whooshing doors and down the spotless hallways. Her good mood was apparent to everyone, and all around her the other nurses and support staff were smiling and joking along with her. She poured herself a steaming cup of tea and then went to Willow's room.

She peeked around the curtain first to see if Willow was awake. The slender redhead was still asleep, her long eyelashes dark against the pallor of her skin. Tara quietly slid out Willow's chart and perused the comments made during the night. John made an interesting note; that Willow had been awake and crying once when he came in, but that she tried to hide it, and joked with him when he took her vitals.

"Oh, my love," she whispered, clucking softly. Tara went and stood by the window, adjusting the blinds so the light wouldn't strike Willow in the face, and as she stood there, she closed her eyes and breathed. These were the moments she had been waiting for. This made it all worthwhile. Yes, there had been fresh blood on the spokes of the amulet again this morning, and her head was pounding fiercely, but she could stand here and just bask. The Willow-light, it was stronger now, more nourishing, and emanated from the small woman in waves that Tara could almost see. While Tara always enjoyed the heaven-threads, trembling as she recalled the heaven-sheets when she was enraptured by three gods, Tara wryly surmised that the Willow-light was better. Like comparing Egyption cotton to flannel.

"Tara?" she heard, and she turned around. Willow had opened her eyes and her face was softly lit by the glow from the sun. The scars on her face were thin, and her hair shone in the light as if afire. Tara couldn't help but look on her in awe and admiration, and she just as quickly shielded her strong feelings a little. No sense scaring her, not yet.

"Good morning, fairy sunshine," Tara said, sitting by the bed. "How are you feeling today?"

Willow grimaced. "With every muscle in my body, I expect," she joked. Quieter, "Thanks for staying last night."

"You're my girl," Tara simply said before arising to take Willow's vitals. She could feel Willow's eyes on her as she moved about, and she tried to hide her aching shuffle from her weakened patient. She deftly placed the blood pressure cuff, lovingly tucked Willow's arm in the crook of her own, and whipped out her stethoscope to listen. All the while, her heart sang. She was with Willow. Willow was awake. She was with Willow.

"Well, we have an exciting day laid out for you," Tara finally said, jotting down the numbers on Willow's chart.

"Do tell," Willow replied wryly, struggling to sit up. Tara quickly adjusted the bed to a comfortable reclining position, and Willow smiled. "That's better. I can see you better."

Tara blushed and ducked her head, ultra-aware that Willow was watching her every move. "We'll do some gentle physical therapy this morning, and some body work. I've also got to change the bandages on your legs today, and that probably won't be pretty."

Tara helped Willow eat some breakfast, engaging her patient in light and easy chatter. Once she had finished, Tara asked, "Well, what would you like first? PT? Massage? Bandages?"

Willow gently bit her lower lip and Tara wished she had her fingers on Willow's head so she could know exactly what Willow was thinking. "Let's do the hard stuff first," Willow decided. "Let's do the bandages."

Tara rolled over a stainless steel cart and piled it with a basin of warm water, fresh gauze and tape, sponges, ointments and soap, and towels. She could always feel Willow's eyes on her as she slowly drew out one of Willow's legs, making sure that the rest of Willow was tucked in and covered up. She began by easing off the old bandages, her heart aching every time Willow winced.

"Talk to me, Tara," Willow asked. Tara looked up and saw the pain on the girl's face.

"What would you like to know?" Tara asked as she returned to her work, softly pulling the crusted gauze away.

"What happened to your face?" The question was asked so softly that Tara barely heard it, and she knew it was a question that had been burning inside Willow ever since she woke. And even though she had already told the story, she knew she had to find the strength to tell it again.

 _(Only truth, Tara.)_

"I was attacked by a demon," Tara said. She knew she should say more, but she just couldn't. There was so much, too much to tell. The demon story would lead to an explanation of healing, which would lead to her shuffling walk, which would lead to Caleb and certain head-lopping with the scythe.

"Tara!" Willow's voice was shocked. "You were attacked by a demon? Are you all right? What else did he do to you?"

Tara lifted her head from her ministrations to Willow's leg. Willow's eyes were full of concern, and so mirrored the look she had given Tara under the willow tree that Tara began to tremble. She thought of the words Willow had spoken, the way Willow had clutched her so tight, blessing her ravaged face with those hot, dry kisses, professing her love for Tara. It was too much.

 _(I'm leaving breadcrumbs)_

Tara was stricken. She couldn't do this again. _(How can your life be what you want it to be?)_ She froze, her fingers dipped in the basin, tears threatening to flood her face. She closed her eyes and felt the burning in her chest, of the wounds that she so recently dressed this morning, the wounds that just wouldn't heal. Only those vicious cuts were open; the rest of her was shut up tight, a protective little ball, keep out the world Tara, and be safe.

"Tara, come here," Willow softly commanded, patting the edge of the bed by her lap. Tara opened her eyes and wiped them, then mutely followed Willow's command, sitting on the edge of the bed. Willow took Tara's hands in both of hers. "Tara, what else did he do to you?" she repeated.

Tara used the one hand wrapped in Willow's to lightly touch her breast. "He ripped open my chest," she said softly. "And my face, but you can see that."

She could see something at war in Willow's features. Her lips had set in a grim little line and her eyes hardened. "Is he dead?" Willow growled.

Tara smiled then, a wan little smile. Demon-fighter, indeed. "Yes, he's dead. I set him on fire with my magic."

"So you are a witch." There was no surprise in Willow's voice.

"Yes, as are you."

Willow softened then, and touched Tara's face, and drew her fingers lightly down the three scabs. "You're still beautiful," she whispered, then she blushed.

Tara also blushed furiously and ducked her head, almost missing the look of triumph that came over Willow's face. For a few moments she allowed Willow to hold her hands, and then she disentangled them to return to her work on Willow's legs.

"I'm a little more curious now," Willow said jokingly.

"I wouldn't have expected anything less," Tara replied, softening a bandage with some water.

They were silent for a few moments, then Willow chuckled. "Am I going to have to pull that story out of you?"

"Apparently," Tara smirked back.

Willow was quiet for a few more moments, then she asked, "How long have you been practicing?"

Ah, a safe subject. Tara was infinitely grateful for the non-demon, non-Caleb, non-head-lopping related topic and she easily answered, "All my life. It's been in my mother's bloodline forever."

"What kind of stuff do you do?" This Willow asked while gritting her teeth as Tara gently washed the long scrapes and cuts down Willow's leg.

"We are healers," Tara replied. "I actually can't do much other magic other than the more simple spells, though I have managed an invisibility-ish spell once in a while." Tara wanted to halt this line of questioning, knowing that Willow would probably want to ask her more about the healing. Despite what Althanea said, Tara just wasn't ready to share just yet. The burden that her girl would feel; Willow would feel responsible for Tara's current misery, and she just couldn't have that happen. Not yet. Maybe in time. "Tell me about how you got started," she said, rinsing the cloth again.

"I guess it all starts with my friend Buffy," Willow said slowly. Tara nodded in encouragement, and Willow started talking about the Slayer, the gang they formed, the kind of activities they did. Tara knew much of the story, but it was always fascinating to hear from Willow's point of view. As Tara competently washed the wounds, applied ointment where necessary, and lavished attention on Willow's legs, Willow told her about Angel, about the curse she performed to give him a soul, and then the steady accumulation of magical power.

Her girl paused then, and Tara glanced up, wondering if she was in pain. Willow's face was screwed up in pain, but not from her leg, and she continued her story a little slower. "I started dabbling too much in black magic," Willow admitted. "I was on the outs with Oz again, and there was nothing else that could make me feel better. Xander stopped me, though, before I went too far," she concluded.

Tara tried to keep the shock from showing on her face. She had no idea that Willow had fooled around with the dark arts, and she felt a momentary glimmer of anger at Althanea for not warning her. But then she brought herself short. (This is a relationship, Tara, whether Willow realizes it yet or not. And you don't need Althanea to tell you everything, do you?)

Tara realized that Willow was looking rather carefully at her. Rather than question her about the black magic, which Willow seemed to think was inevitable, Tara asked, "Tell me about Xander?"

"Xander always felt bad that he had no super-powers," Willow remarked sadly. "Yet he was the glue that kept our group together, he was our heart, our conscience." Willow's voice trailed off and Tara imagined that Willow was thinking back on her many experiences, and feeling once again the awful void in her life. "That's funny," she casually remarked a few moments later.

"Mmm?" Tara encouraged, moving deliberately to Willow's other leg.

"I found another memory that's missing something. This is really odd."

Tara's blood ran chill. She forgot to put the shovels back when she was finished with them. "Tell me about it?" she inquired.

"We were grave-digging this one time to catch a guy that was trying to make a zombie girlfriend for his brother he just raised from the dead. Buffy and I were sitting on the edge of the grave, eating donuts, and Giles and Xander were doing all the shoveling. But there are no shovels in their hands.

"This is like something out of 'The Dead Zone'," Willow concluded.

"'The Dead Zone'?" Tara asked.

"It's this book by Stephen King. A guy wakes from a coma and finds he is missing things from his memory. He calls them 'dead zones'. He also turned out to have precognitive abilities."

Tara smiled at Willow. "Think you're turning into a prognosticator yourself?" she asked.

"Not hardly," Willow snorted. "Even with a million clues staring me in the face I sometimes have a hard time connecting things."

Tara half-smiled, thinking of just how true Willow's statement was. And she just couldn't help it, she just had to say, "Breadcrumbs."

"What did you say?"

Tara looked up, aghast. "Breadcrumbs," she repeated softly.

"Breadcrumbs. Why did you say that? That word is so familiar to me for some reason, but something is just... hiding from me, just out of reach." Willow looked accusingly at Tara. "Am I missing something? Right now? There are some clues here, but I can't seem to put them together."

"It will come to you," Tara promised, thinking of what Althanea told her. _(No lies, Tara.)_ How much should she say? "Althanea said she would come by later today, and she'll find ways to help you heal, and..." her voice trailed off.

"And what?" Willow asked after a long pause.

"And she can help you remember what happened in your coma," Tara reluctantly concluded. Willow was obviously waiting for her to continue, but Tara couldn't. She finished with Willow's other leg and instructed her patient that they should leave them uncovered for a while.

"When is she coming?" Willow asked as Tara began cleaning up.

"Just after lunch," Tara promised, concentrating on steering the cart, on looking at the floor, at looking anywhere but at Willow.

"Tara, why won't you look at me?" Willow asked quietly. Tara looked up then, stricken by the note of anguish in Willow's voice. "Am I really that hideous?" Willow continued. "I mean, I know I'm a little more battle-scarred than I've ever been and my hair is probably a mess, but you're a nurse, you've seen these kinds of things before, so why is it you won't look at me?"

Tara was aghast. She had no idea that her reluctance to look Willow in the eyes was that obvious, and she cursed herself for doing it. She sat once again on the edge of Willow's bed and took one of Willow's small hands in hers. Looking carefully into Willow's eyes, she answered, "B-because I'm afraid."

Pause. "What are you afraid of?" Willow dared ask.

Tara moved her head to look out the window, but Willow's small hand on her chin gently craned it back to look directly at her patient. Her hair was afire, her skin was alabaster, and her very proximity was driving Tara crazy with desire. She couldn't, didn't dare look Willow in the eyes. There was too much she was trying to hide: her desperate love for her patient, a love that should not exist in the workplace, the immense and soul-cracking pain that ran like liquid fire continually along her nerves, and her fear that Willow would reject her, would casually lop off her head and say, "As if I could ever love you." She could hide almost anything, she could create a shining husk of health and vitality, but she could never completely hide things in her eyes.

"I'm afraid of you seeing too much. I'm scared that you will see what I'm trying so hard to hide," Tara finally admitted.

"Then why are you trying to hide it?" So soft, so gentle.

Tara looked deep into Willow's emerald eyes and her voice held no mirth, only devastating truth. "Because once I let you see it, your world will never be the same again." Breath. "Willow, your war with the First isn't over. The final battle still lies ahead of you."


	24. Confusion

**Chapter Twenty Four**

 **Confusion**

How much did Tara know?

The thought was driving Willow insane with confusion. Her plain, brown-haired nurse was obviously conflicted, she was recovering from her own terrible wounds, and she knew so much. Willow could scarcely comprehend just how much Tara knew, and the wall behind Tara's eyes spoke larger than any words that Tara knew far more than she was letting on. There was another secret there, and every attribute that made Willow a demon-hunter was employed in getting to the bottom of this truth. Yet as Tara spoke of Willow's war with the First, a single memory knifed into Willow's mind with inconceivable, terrifying force.

A scalpel. Gleaming in lamplight. She was pinned underneath the preacher's body, sharp stones cutting into her back. He was chuckling, he was insane, he was popping the buttons from her jacket before taking considerable pleasure in making long and slow cuts down her sternum, a mocking parody of Tara's own demon-ravaged chest.

Willow choked, and her eyes rolled back.

"Willow?" she heard Tara call, as if from a distance, from beyond a veil. "Willow!"

But Willow was mesmerized by this unfamiliar scene, by the pain she felt in her chest, and she felt transported to this eerie Sunnydale of hell. There was a great amount of information here, all of it familiar in a déjà vu kind of way, and Willow choked on it all. But as fast as the scene came it also fled, leaving her in dizzying amounts of confusion and disarray. What was that? It was Caleb, and he had her on the ground on a street in Sunnydale. Willow didn't remember that ever actually happening, Caleb was dead! Buffy killed him with the scythe, split him completely down the middle! "Willow, talk to me, please," Tara was pleading, and Willow looked at her with dazed eyes.

One word. "Caleb," she said.

Tara's eyes widened. "It's too soon," she whispered.

"What's too soon? Tara?" Willow asked.

Tara got up from her bed and Willow wished she could follow her, hold her back somehow. It was obvious that Tara knew of Caleb, and Willow was beginning to wonder if Tara wasn't some sort of omnipotent goddess who somehow knew every facet of Willow's life. The horror in Tara's eyes made Willow believe that Tara somehow knew how evil Caleb was. How was that possible?

Tara stood at the gleaming counter, her hands firmly planted, her head bowed. "It's too soon," she repeated, then finally looked softly over at Willow, who was squirming in anxiety.

"I just wanted to protect you," said her nurse. "I just wanted you to have a few days, just a few freaking days when the world wasn't in peril!" She raised her voice and clenched her hands and shook with feeling, and Willow was enthralled by it. Had anyone ever felt this strongly about her before? "A few days for you to be yourself," Tara concluded meekly.

However Tara knew all this and as improbable as this knowledge was, her words struck Willow to the core. She didn't regret her fight against evil; she had saved countless lives and averted disaster time and again. But Tara's words reminded her of the world that most people lived in, a world of ice cream and movie dates and studying for exams and not worrying about getting eviscerated every weekend, or not worrying about going out after dark without a stake. It was a world of danger and demons, of violence and vampires, and Willow found herself horrified at the thought of gentle Tara being involved in that world. She didn't know where that feeling came from exactly, just that a strong surge of compassion had overcome her at Tara's words. She barely knew this woman, yet she had somehow burrowed close to Willow's heart. She didn't know what Tara's favourite colour was, how she liked her steak, whether she listened to Bing Crosby during the holidays, but she found a ravenous desire within herself to discover those things.

Tara could not have known how deeply those words hurt. A few days to be herself. And with this memory, Caleb had once again foiled her plans. Like Tara said, it was too soon. But Willow was too much a professional to mourn the lost days of innocence for long. Trouble keeps its own timetable.

So Willow let Tara stand, since she couldn't quite put all her feelings into words. But Tara quickly returned, grabbing a bottle of body cream she sat down again by Willow's side. Pouring some on her hands, Tara started to rub it into the dry skin of Willow's hands.

"You were being held hostage," Tara finally said, and she just wouldn't look at Willow. Willow's skin drank in the lotion, just as Willow's soul drank in the devotion of Tara, and Willow wouldn't say a word, wouldn't dare interrupt if Tara was finally getting to something interesting. She found this silence within her to be puzzling; she had been cursed her whole life with a mouth that opened far too often and various vowel sounds emerging all willy-nilly. But with this mysterious woman, this girl who knew far too much, who was so graceful and beautiful, Willow felt awkward and gauche. She wanted to stem the flood of words that threatened to cascade over them both, for she instinctively knew that Tara wouldn't speak unless there was silence. Tara would have to be coaxed, cajoled, gently prodded even, for Willow to get her story.

But Willow was so enchanted by her, by the maddening glint of familiarity, that she found she would do almost anything for this unknown and strange woman. Even keep quiet.

So eventually Tara continued. "You used the power of the scythe to activate all the Potential Slayers."

Long pause. "Yes," Willow finally agreed, hoping to pull more out of Tara while simultaneously amazed at all this woman knew.

"Caleb's spirit was trapped in the scythe," Tara said. Her eyes flickered up to Willow, then went down again, now rubbing lotion into Willow's arms. "Once you lost consciousness, once your skull was broken, he moved into your mind and imprisoned you within a great black wall."

Willow closed her eyes, trying to envision what Tara was saying, her heart pounding in fear. She should have known it was too easy to kill Caleb. They should have known he would have another trick up his sleeve. But though the words rang with truth, Willow still couldn't see the memories behind them. There was still a fog in her way, a veil.

"If he kept you there, imprisoned in your own mind, you would have died," Tara softly continued. "He would have trapped you in the coma forever, until your body eventually shut down, and then he would have been free once again. You were his prison, he couldn't be free until you were dead."

Willow was trembling. She could barely concentrate on Tara's words. Tara's warm fingers were methodically working their way up to Willow's shoulders, and her muscles melted under her tender ministrations. Every word Tara spoke was in a near-whisper, and she knew, oh she knew how much it hurt Tara to say it.

"I had to get you out," Tara continued. "You are the most powerful witch in the world, and the only one capable of taking him on, of finally sealing the rift the First made in the world."

Willow blushed a little as Tara called her the most powerful witch, and she couldn't help it, she just had to say, "Oh, I don't know about that. Surely Althanea and the coven are much more powerful than I."

Tara looked up and smiled. "It was Althanea who told me that," she said. Willow was aghast, her mind was whirling. "We needed you awake, but with Caleb holding you prisoner, we didn't know how," Tara said, pulling down the top of Willow's robe so she could rub lotion in her neck and the top of her chest. Willow started to breathe shallowly, her stomach in a tight knot as the beautiful woman drew closer and closer to her. Tara didn't seem to notice, or she was merely caught up in her story. "Until I had a visitation from the goddess Aranaea, who told me what I needed to do to save you."

Tara's fingers dipped only so far before returning to Willow's neck and throat and she gently rubbed lotion behind Willow's ears and neck. Willow gulped; Tara was incredibly close to her, and she could see a tiny way under Tara's shirt, to the gauze and taped portion of her chest and the thick chain of the amulet. Strange that she should feel this way; she could feel her heart pounding, and her mouth was dry, and there was a surge of painful joy in her stomach. Tara finally moved away, shuffling to the other side of Willow's bed to take her other arm and start there.

Only then did Willow remember what Tara had just said. "You wanted to save me?" Quickly Willow's mind whirled through the possibilities. What a perfect opportunity to discover something that had been troubling her. Was Tara only acting on orders? Was Willow just another assignment? "Why did you want to save me? You didn't even know me. I'm just some girl." Willow almost held her breath, wondering if she had just pushed too far.

Tara stared at Willow's knuckles, and Willow saw her swallow. "Well, Aranaea did tell me that the world would cease to exist if I didn't save you." Willow's heart fell. So she was just an assignment, a little blip in Tara's life.

But then Tara squeezed her hand and Willow looked at her again. "Even if she hadn't told me to, I would have saved you, Willow." Willow's heart soared again, and she pondered that elation. She was puzzled by it, and puzzled by this enigmatic woman. Willow wanted to pursue this line of questioning, wanted to ask 'why', to force an answer out of her, but Tara was clearly uncomfortable, and Willow decided to veer to a safer topic.

"What did you need to do?" Willow asked.

"I needed the amulet of Thespia, and the only person I knew who had one was..."

"Angel," Willow finished.

Tara nodded. "I didn't know he was a vampire. We met in a cemetery and I told him that you were my patient. He didn't believe me at first; the Watcher's Council evidently lied about you, had put your name on the list of the dead. But Aranaea had told me a lot about you, and I was able to overcome his suspicions. He gave me the amulet, and then..."

Tara bit her lower lip and touched her face. "That's when I was attacked."

"You were attacked because of me?" Willow asked, despairing. Oh, no. What have I done to this girl?

"No," Tara replied firmly. "It was my choice, Willow. With the amulet, I could now perform the spell that would..." her voice trailed off again.

"That would what? Tara, what did you do?" Willow asked; she could see that Tara's face was anguished. "Wait," she said. Immediately several things clicked in her mind. Caleb was holding her hostage in a coma, but she was awake now. Thespia was the jailer of demons. Tara was wearing the amulet of Thespia, and hadn't taken it off a single moment since Willow met her. And there was a wall. "You didn't," she breathed.

"I had to, Willow," Tara said, her voice firm, but she still wouldn't look at Willow, she concentrated on rubbing lotion into her upper arm.

Willow had to be certain that they were both talking about the same thing. If they were, she would be in debt to this woman until the day she died, and she would do anything, absolutely anything for her. "Tara, did you take Caleb? Is he imprisoned in your mind now?"

Quiet.

"Yes," Tara breathed.

Willow was rocked back in wonder. "Why? Tara, why?" she finally asked, grabbing Tara's hands and mentally forcing Tara to look at her. Tara finally looked at her, and the sunlight was behind Tara's head, and the glow made it seem as if her nurse was afire with celestial delight. Willow could almost see the halo over her head, and upon her dazed eyes a vision was superimposed: it was her nurse, but it wasn't only her nurse, for angel wings thrust from her shoulders, glimmering in gold fire, a gown of shimmering starlight hung from her delicious curves, and ancient wisdom and beauty was inscribed on her face.

"Who are you?" Willow asked, her eyes feasting.

Her nurse tried to look away, but Willow lifted her hand and stroked the ravaged skin of her cheek, holding her gently. "Tara, who are you?" she repeated.

"I'm only your nurse," Tara stammered. "Just a nurse."

There was a knock on the door, and the vision crumbled beneath Willow's eyes and a great disappointment filled her. She was so close to something, she could sense the edges of the idea, vast and soft like butterfly wings, and gone just as easily. Tara pulled her hands out of Willow's and quickly wiped her face as Willow recognized the heavy step of Dr. Daniels. He paused just beyond the curtain and called, "May I come in?"

Tara smiled wistfully and pulled a light sheet over Willow's legs, then stood by the end of Willow's bed and grasped her foot. Willow wasn't sure which one of them needed that physical connection, but the simple act of Tara's hands on her toes filled her with reassurance. "Come in, Ethan," Tara responded lightly.

Dr. Daniels was nervous, and Willow couldn't understand why. He glanced over at Willow and then at Tara, who was still standing by Willow's feet, and his face held the oddest expression. It was almost as if he was expecting to see something else, and his hesitation in entering the room astounded her.

 _(He loves her, but she doesn't love him.)_

Willow had no idea where the flash of insight came from, but the truth of it settled over her like a cloak. "Tara, I hear that Willow is having a visitor this afternoon?"

"Yes," Tara replied, and Willow looked back and forth between them.

"Would you mind visiting with me in my office when she comes? We'll take our lunch break together. There's something we need to discuss."

"Of course," Tara replied. After inquiring about Willow, Dr. Daniels left. The magical mood between them had quite vanished, and Willow could see that Tara had retreated again behind the wall in her eyes. Willow wanted to ask more questions, to pull the rest of this fascinating story from the nurse with the reluctant lips, but she knew she could only push so far.

So Willow gladly answered Tara's questions about her friends, and when lunch came she found herself hungrier than she imagined and was able to eat it all without Tara's help. Precisely at one o'clock there came another knock at the door and Tara quickly rose to escort Willow's visitor inside.

Willow couldn't help but smile. Althanea looked nothing like she expected her to. She wasn't sure where she got the idea that the First Priestess of Hecate was stodgy or old, but the woman that strode confidently through the door was neither. She was as willowy and graceful as Tara with bouncy caramel coloured hair that was graying near the roots. She seemed to sparkle with coruscating light, and as she walked into the room she drew with her a scent of fresh air.

"At last we meet, Willow Rosenberg," Althanea said, walking right up to Willow's bedside and stretching out her hand. Willow raised her non-IV pierced hand and Althanea smothered it in both of hers in a firm handshake. Willow looked up and could see Tara chuckling, a large smile cracking her face, making the thin scabs on her cheeks pull.

"I'm pleased to meet you," Willow replied. Tara pulled up a comfortable chair for Althanea, who spun it around to sit backwards on it, plying her arms on the top and staring at Willow.

"Can I get anything for either of you?" Tara quietly asked. Both witches shook their heads. Tara came up to Willow and pulled out the call cord with the red button on the end. "If anything happens, if you need me for anything, you just call me, all right?" she said, pressing the cord into Willow's hand. She then bent and swiftly kissed Willow on the cheek. Before Willow could even respond to the warm touch, Tara had fled, closing the door behind her, leaving Willow alone with Althanea. She looked sideways at her visitor, wondering what Althanea thought of Tara's kiss, then she just as suddenly decided that she didn't care what Althanea thought. Willow lodged the feathery touch of that kiss securely in her memory bank and blushed.

"I'm sure you're bursting with questions," Althanea said wryly.

"Isn't that the honest truth?" Willow agreed. "I barely know what's going on. Tara started to tell me a little bit this morning, but she's having a hard time confiding in me. There's a whole lot going on here that I just don't understand, and she's not being very forthcoming. It still shocks me that she knows anything at all – I've lived the last seven years of my life trying to keep all this secret, and she seems to know absolutely everything. How is that?"

Great, Rosenberg. Good to know you haven't completely lost your ability to babble like a goon.

"Your abrupt appearance in her life has turned everything upside down," Althanea revealed. "I doubt she's the same person she was merely a week ago."

"She said you could help me heal, and that you might be able to help me remember what happened in my coma. She, she said..." and Willow's voice trailed off. She thought of the scalpel, of the rivulets of blood running down her chest as she was reaved by Caleb. "She said I was a prisoner."

"That's true," Althanea admitted, though she had a funny expression on her face. "I suggest we do some healing first, your legs look particularly painful."

Willow uncovered her legs by drawing back the sheet across them and Althanea clucked in disapproval at seeing the ropy mess of stitches, scrapes, and gashes. "I don't remember this happening," Willow said. "I remember the sword, and my head, but I don't remember this."

"Faith got you out of the school," Althanea began. "She took you to the bus with several other potentials and you tried to race the implosion. But you weren't fast enough, and the bus plunged back into the new ravine. Your legs got caught under the seats."

"I wonder why Tara stopped healing them," Willow wondered aloud. "I mean, I know she worked on my abdomen and my neck, why did she stop?" There was a strange indecipherable expression on Althanea's face and Willow suddenly felt stupid. "What am I missing?" she asked.

"Tara's healing power is far different from the powers we use," Althanea replied. "We use the power of earth to pull energy to the hurt area, we form new skin and cells from the earth, and then ply those cells into the affected areas, yes?" Willow nodded. She remembered all this. "Tara's power is more elementary than our own. She doesn't use the power of earth. She simply uses her own cells. It's vastly quicker than our methods because she doesn't have to expend any energy changing the weaves of earth into human chemical bonds of amino acids and such stuff."

Willow was trying to wrap her mind about the unfamiliar concept. "You mean to say that she takes cells out of her own body to replace the ones I lose?" she asked, trying to boil it down.

"Precisely," Althanea agreed. "But it's even more involved than that. While she sends her own cells, she simultaneously draws out the pain and infection in the wound."

"You mean she takes it in both directions?" Willow asked, appalled. "She rips out her own healthy cells to give me and takes my pain in the same instant?"

"Yes," Althanea simply said.

And the reason for Tara's shuffling walk became crystal clear, and shocked Willow to the bone. "Is it equal?" she asked.

"I don't understand?"

"You're saying that if I cut my arm with a knife and she decided to heal it, she would feel the cut instead? Equally bad?"

"Yes."

"Why did you let her?" Willow demanded, close to tears. Her hands scrambled frantically over her body as she pulled aside the robe to look at her smooth stomach, with the long pale scar. She looked at her shoulder, where the ubervamp had been dining on her jugular. She remembered striking her head, and her mother's words floated back to her... _(broken skull)_.

Althanea said something so strange then that it halted Willow in her tracks. "What do you care?" she asked.

Willow looked at her, incredulous. What was Althanea asking?

"Why should you care if Tara was hurt? You barely know her."

There was some purpose of Althanea's, some reason she was asking Willow that unfathomable question, but Willow couldn't discern what it was. "Of course I care," she replied, her voice breaking.

"She's just a nurse," Althanea maddeningly continued. "It's what she does."

"What are you doing?" Willow asked, near tears. "Why are you doing this?"

Althanea was almost stern. "Just what does Tara mean to you, Willow?"

"I don't know!" Willow responded automatically. Tears began to roll down her cheeks and she lifted her pierced hand to wipe them away. Althanea's question had unerringly echoed Willow's own question yesterday when her mother had visited. Ever since, Willow had been wondering the exact same thing. She realized now that Althanea was being quiet, watching her carefully, waiting for her response.

Willow recalled the strange double vision she had experienced only this morning, when her nurse had appeared in the guise of an angel. This girl, this unknown girl, had taken Willow in, had pleaded to the gods, had been attacked by demons, had somehow pulled Caleb into her own mind, and had healed Willow of many of her pains in the bargain. What was Tara's motivation for all this? Was she merely acting as any nurse would, or was Willow special in some way? If she had been told to do it, by Aranaea or others, of course she would follow instructions. Was Willow nothing more than a pet project?

No. Because there was a wall, and a flicker of emotion, and that glint of memory. Had she really heard Tara say, "Oh, my love," this morning? What was the meaning behind the endearments, the soft caresses, the familiarity? Why did Tara make her so nervous, and so confused?

Breadcrumbs.

So just what did Tara mean to her?

"I don't even know her," Willow started. She brought Tara's face to the front of her memory, and gazed upon it in frank admiration. She recalled Tara's laugh, her smile, her warm and supple fingers, her unspoken devotion to her patient that screamed of its existence in a million tiny ways. "But I can't imagine my life without her," Willow continued. "I would weather an apocalypse for her. I would go to the ends of the earth if I had to, in order to save her. I think," and Willow got quiet, amazed that she was saying these kinds of things aloud to a complete stranger. "I think that I would die for her."

Willow looked at Althanea then, and was pleased to see a smile break on her face. "As would we, Willow," Althanea agreed. "She's very special."

"There's more, though, isn't there?" Willow asked.

"There always is," the witch replied cryptically. "But for now we better get to work. We need to have you ship-shape in no time."

Of course. "Tara said that there is still another battle coming," Willow tentatively said. "I guess my fighting days are far from over."

"You and I, our fight will never be over," Althanea agreed. "This is just a lull. Peace before the storm. I've been asked to request that, once you are discharged from the hospice, you come to England to report to the Watcher's Council and get updated on all the recent activity. Buffy and the potentials may be dead, but there are hundreds of Slayers out there now, and the Council has been devastated by the First. We need you yet, Willow."

Willow sighed. The money. Of course they would use the money as a strangle-hold on her. By paying for her care, they would ensure her cooperation. "I would get to come back, though, right?" she asked.

There was a strange expression on Althanea's face, a small note of triumph that seemed out of place in their conversation. "Of course," she replied. "Your life will still be yours."

Willow barked a short laugh. It seemed that her life was anything but hers. She had been reeling from crisis to crisis for the past seven years of her life. But she realized long ago that she would have it no other way. _(It's a good fight, Buffy, and I want in.)_ Nothing had changed since then. Her friends were gone, but their memories would live in her. As long as she remembered them, they wouldn't really be dead. And as long as she kept fighting, kept pushing back the forces of evil and darkness, she would honour their lives, and their deaths. It was one big circle, and she wouldn't have it any other way, not for ice cream or movie dates.

But would Tara fit in that circle? Once she was discharged from the hospice would she never see her blue-eyed nurse again? The mere thought made Willow weak. But did she really want Tara to be a part of this life? The staggering loss of her friends was still so near, so awful, what would she do if Tara came to harm? Running amidst all these thoughts, Willow suddenly brought herself up short. Why was this girl so important to her?

She and Althanea bent to their task, invoking the energies of the universe. For the next few hours they sat, enraptured, pulling and weaving the energies into her abraded skin and muscles. Althanea seemed puzzled that Willow kept insisting on weaving in threads of spirit along with earth, but she soon realized that Willow had stumbled on an even more effective method of healing. By adding spirit to the mix, the new tissues knit together more perfectly, and it took less energy to convert them into the proper cells.

Willow was near exhaustion when they finally had to stop. Panting, she looked down at her legs. They were far from completely healed, but at least all the wounds had closed and scabbed over. As long as she didn't pick on them, they would heal faster than usual. Althanea stood and strode to the sink, wringing out a warm cloth and then laid it on Willow's forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat.

"Thank you for your help," Willow breathed. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"My pleasure," the British witch said warmly. She looked closely at Willow, at the dark circles under her eyes. "I need to go to Los Angeles for a few days and meet with Angel," Althanea said. "We need to locate the scythe, as you will need it for your final battle."

Willow was confused. Again. "Tara mentioned it earlier. Do you know what this battle will be?"

"Not exactly," the witch demurred. "It should come as no surprise that we're relying on you to reason it out."

Willow huffed. "Can I at least have a few days to prepare for the apocalypse this time?"

Althanea laughed. "This is one instance where you can take your time, Willow. Caleb is chained, for now. See if you can't uncover your lost memories on your own. Tara, she is the one with the key to your memories, but it is a hard thing for her to disclose." She could see that Willow was about to barrage her with questions again, and merely continued, "Some of them aren't very pretty, Willow. She just wants to protect you. Give you some time?"

"I understand," Willow breathed. Ever since Tara told her that the battle wasn't over and that there were vital memories locked in her brain, Willow had been strangely conflicted. She didn't really want those memories, not just yet. Without them she could pretend, for a little while at least, that the world didn't need saving. She could just be Willow for a little while, not Willow the demon-fighter, or Willow the vampire-slayer-wannabe, or even Willow the witch. Just little Willow Rosenberg, Tara's patient. She knew that the minute she regained those memories, this fragile peace would end. Her life had been so chaotic up to this point that she sincerely just wanted a few days of rest. A few days to put everything back together again.

A few days to discover just what Tara meant to her.

 _(Ice cream and movie dates...)_

Speaking of Tara... Willow hadn't seen her nurse all afternoon. She pressed the call button and heard a strident little beeping emerge from the nurse station down the hall. Althanea sat down, ostensibly to chat with Tara before going on to Los Angeles. But a minute passed, then another, before the call was answered, and not by Tara.

It was Dr. Daniels who strode in the room. "What can I get for you, Willow?" he asked companionably.

"Uh, is Tara around?" Willow asked, confused.

Dr. Daniels shuffled his feet a little. "No," he said. "She wasn't feeling well, so I drove her home. April will be looking after you for the rest of the shift, and then there is John tonight. So this is your guest?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Willow could see her own confusion mirrored on Althanea's face. Willow's heart sank. No wonder Tara wasn't feeling well, she had taken a sword wound, a broken skull, a near-evisceration, and a vampire bite for crying out loud! "Yes, this is Althanea," Willow replied distantly.

"Could I have a word, Althanea?" Dr. Daniels asked. "Excuse us, Willow."

He drew Althanea from the room and Willow just couldn't help herself, she just had to know. She quickly recited a spell and released it. Even though they were talking in the hallway, she could hear every word of their conversation.

"You're staying with Tara, right?"

"Yes, has something happened?"

"She had a fainting spell. Do you know how ill she is?"

"Yes, do you?"

"More than you. We've got a big problem. She can't take the rabbits any more."

"I know."

"Can you find her a demon? It worked the last time on a demon."

"If I must."

"You must."

Her ears suddenly muffled, Willow realized that Althanea must have sensed her intrusion and woven a counter-spell. Rabbits? Demons? Fainting spell? What was going on?


	25. The Hollowing

**Chapter Twenty Five**

 **The Hollowing**

Tara sat alone on her kitten-abraded couch with a cooling cup of tea in her hand. She had tucked a thin knitted blanket about her legs and was staring at the television without seeing what was on. It was far too warm for said blanket, but she needed the comfort it provided, and disconsolately wished it could be something (someone!) else draped over her body, warming her, consoling her. Perhaps that was why the cup of tea cooled in her hand, untouched. Commercials about laundry detergent and anti-depressants flashed on and off and she didn't even budge.

It was all she could do to sit there without screaming. It took every meager resource in her besieged body to remain oh so quiet, oh so still, for any movement at all would shock her nervous system. Perhaps that's why the cup of tea cooled in her hand, why the remote lay lifeless by her side. She found she couldn't even think correctly – the experiences of the day flitted past her mind as if she were a mere observer. She could see her jaunty walk down the hallways of the hospice this morning, she could see her fingers working in the lotion on Willow's dry skin _(and oh how intoxicating that was, I could barely think clearly, all I could comprehend was the aching desire that flooded me, how I yearned to hold her, be held by her)_ , she could see Ethan holding up Willow's file folder, she could see the floor rising to meet her cheek with horrendous force as a wall of purple faint overcame her...

She was in darkness.

She was in peril.

She was being chased down long, unfamiliar streets by

 _(the long preacher, the dark hand, the silent might)_

Caleb, and he hunted her with the easy grace of a natural predator, calling out to her, his words poison in her ears, filling her mind with madness. And he would catch her, and he would reave her, and bathe his face in her blood, put her blood on his tongue and shiver in ecstasy. Only as she felt her life drain into the gutter, her consciousness lifting, did she awaken from her faint.

Tara couldn't even blame her collapse (and subsequent torture) on the information Ethan had been sharing. His 'little discussion' with her was no more than a warning that Willow's parents had taken copies of everything in their daughter's file, ostensibly so they could sue them all later. No, she had been calmly sitting, enjoying an egg salad sandwich, enjoying a light conversation with Ethan, regretting the schism that had formed between them, when a vast roaring shut out all sound. Muffled, confused, Tara witnessed a shattering bolt of light rocket through her skull, and she passed out on the floor. She was frantic when she woke, weeping and gnashing her teeth.

Her tea was cold.

Tara could only breathe. A reality show came on and she wanted to change the channel, but she couldn't force her muscles to do more than simply breathe. Survivor Ash Island, indeed. Diaphragm moved up and down. Slowly. Up and down.

The pain was a sword in her side, a crack in her skull, a rip across her abdomen. Not a mischievous gremlin, no, not any more, not even a grinning imp, it was a living, breathing fiend, intent on conquering her body and rearranging it to its will. Would there be anything of her left when the pain was done? Or was it hollowing her, leaving only an empty husk, a shape that looked like a Tara-girl, but was only darkness inside?

Breathe, Tara.

Jeff Probst. Now there was a strange man. Traipsing all over the world, hanging about with stinky, ill-mannered people for 39 days. Ash Island, owned by a lady millionaire from Texas. Tara wished she could have an island. She could picture herself on an island, in a bikini, drinking pina coladas while surf crashed nearby, lazing on a towel with a Willow-girl hovering protectively over her, pouring suntan lotion on her and sensuously rubbing it into her skin. It took every ounce of effort she had to close her eyes and envision this properly.

But even in her bikini _(it was green, the sea green of Willow's tempestuous eyes)_ she had a sword run through her, and a great rip across her abdomen, a fanged bite in her neck and a crack in her skull. And she would be struck by inner lightning, a surge of hatred from her prisoner, and she would fall to the ground, her eyes rolling back, lifeless. What would Willow do then? Cry and clutch frantically at her, call her name? _(If I should lose you, my heart would be broken.)_ Or kick sand over her and lop her head off with a scythe and callously say, "As if I could ever love you"?

As heavy and gummy as they were, Tara opened her eyes. Slowly. Tara breathed. Slowly. Diaphragm up and down. When someone knocked on the door a few minutes later, the shock of it jangling her nerves nearly killed her. "Come in," she croaked, then cleared her throat and called louder. "Come in."

Robbers don't knock, do they? Maybe it was a polite robber, who wanted to knock before taking all her stuff and shooting her in the process. Right now she'd welcome the bullet. Maybe it was Ethan, come to check on her after her fainting spell earlier. It could be Althanea, though she said earlier she was going to go straight to Los Angeles after meeting with Willow.

It was Althanea. She came swiftly through the door, closing it behind her, and took in Tara's appearance in a single glance. The cold cup of tea, the blanket over the knees, the look of absolute deadness in Tara's eyes; Althanea's face creased in vast concern, and she rushed over to Tara.

 _Please don't touch me, I couldn't bear it if you touch me,_ Tara thought. Whether by mind-reading magic or by womanly intuition, Althanea did stop, and knelt by Tara's feet and gazed at her, her heart in her eyes. _Whatever did I do to deserve her?_ "What can I do?" Althanea asked.

Tara barely swiveled her head to look at her guest. A single great tear rolled down her cheek, but she couldn't lift her enormously heavy hands to wipe it away. "Nothing," she whispered. "There is nothing."

"There must be something," Althanea disagreed. "You can't take the rabbits, and I can't heal you, but Ethan told me you haven't yet tried a demon. I'll... I'll go get you a demon."

 _(Believe me, Tara, there's not a single one of us that wouldn't die for you.)_

Tara knew she should feel relief, but she was still in the clutches of the pain-fiend, who was still steadily eating chunks of her from the inside out, hollowing her, devouring her. Would there be any Tara left to love when he was finished? Would they all love a corpse?

Althanea could get her a demon. It was the last thing Tara could try. And if a demon didn't work

 _if my eyes don't turn black and I don't feel a wave of malicious pleasure in turning my gift inside out, harming instead of healing, taking instead of giving_

Tara knew, oh Tara knew she was in trouble. "Do you need time off?" Althanea asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor at Tara's feet, still not touching her.

"I can't leave Willow," Tara said softly. Breathe, Tara.

"Tara, you have to take care of yourself, too," Althanea replied.

With every ounce of strength in her body, Tara swiveled her neck to look clearly at her guest. Another tear rolled down her cheek, tickling her, and hung, suspended, on her chin. She didn't have the power to wipe it away. "I need her," Tara tried to explain. "I won't live without her."

Tara wasn't sure if Althanea understood, yet, and Tara couldn't quite find the words. Not when even the heaviness of the thin blanket was suffocating her, when the cup of tea was an anchor in her hand. "I'll feel better after I sleep," Tara promised.

"Doesn't all this nobility hurt?" Althanea asked, getting angrily up off the floor. Tara could barely watch her take a turn about the room, shutting off the TV in the process. Althanea returned to stand in front of Tara, her hands squarely on her hips. "Doesn't it hurt to be superwoman? You don't have to be perfect, Tara. You don't have to always be a damn paragon!"

Tara's throat closed, thickened with grief and tears and pain. "Touch me, please," she croaked, lifting her hand. Althanea looked confused, then sat down next to Tara and took her hand, enfolding it in both of hers. "Close your eyes," Tara asked.

Tara needed no tree now. She didn't need or want a reminder of what bad shape her body was in. She had something to explain to Althanea and she couldn't use words. Not when her jaw was so heavy, so thick. She probed delicately at the membrane of Althanea's consciousness, and lightly pushed in. She tried not to look too deep into the other woman's memories; these were private and she felt like an intruder. But what she could do was this...

 _(The choice was mine and mine completely)_

For only a moment, a mere moment, Tara allowed Althanea to glimpse the horror of her life. In that moment was packed a million frames of violence and incest and hurtful words. The next moment she showed Althanea her desperation to rack up the blood debt, to end a life that was too painful to be borne alone.

 _"You may not think so, Tara, but I do love you," Donny had yelled at her, the corpse of the cow at their feet. "How many sisters do you think I have?"_

And the next instant she showed Althanea the moment beneath the Willow tree, the moment when she was the one cradled, and protected, and loved. In the truth of Willow's mind, it was obvious. Tara was her saviour, but Tara needed to be saved. The only one who could was Willow. Blushing, Tara showed Althanea the kissed blessing, the redhead's fingers upon her cheeks, the words that sealed her fate... _(Tara Maclay, I don't even know you. But I love you.)_

Tara brought them back out and heavily drew her hand away from Althanea's grip. The woman's face was indecipherable. "I need to be with her," Tara said quietly.

There was silence for a long minute as Tara carefully watched Althanea's face. Though Althanea had known all along that Tara was in love with Willow, and that it was Tara's destiny to heal her with that love, it was quite another thing to blatantly show such intimacy. But Althanea's face melted, her earlier ire quite dissolved, and with a feathery touch Althanea brushed the drying tears from Tara's face. "I think I understand," she whispered. Holding Tara's face carefully in her slightly wrinkled hands, Althanea leaned in and kissed Tara on the forehead. "I'll bring home a demon for you."

Tara's face fell in concern. She opened her mouth to speak useless platitudes of 'be careful' when Althanea chuckled. "Don't worry, dear. Angel is going to help me. I'll be quite safe."

"Thank you," Tara mouthed. She couldn't even force her voice to work now. She had never felt quite this helpless before. As Althanea's gentle fingers pried her hand away from the cup of tea, setting it aside on a coffee table, love for this strange British witch filled Tara's whole soul. She was like a mother, like an older sister, a dear friend. Tara never had dear friends before, but since moving to Los Osos, since accepting her assignment from Aranaea, she had discovered a few. Why was that?

 _(the sacrifices will be great, but the rewards will be even greater.)_

If the pain she was in at this very moment was any indication, then her reward would be spectacular beyond all reason. And Tara recalled the vision Aranaea sent her, the vision that drove her to anger, then finally to acceptance of her fate...

 _Tara was lying on her side on fresh-mown grass, sunshine filtering softly through green leaves. Soft sounds of laughter, of children playing next door, delicately intruded her little dome of sunshiny delight. She could smell the sharp tang of tomato plants, the soft musk of decaying plant matter, the sandalwood and rose of Willow's hair. She ran her fingers through that gorgeously alluring red hair, smiling at the rising blush in Willow's cheeks._

 _Willow was lying on her back along Tara's body. Her face was turned invitingly towards Tara, her dimples deep in barely restrained joy. As Tara's one hand gently caressed Willow's hair, her other hand was entwined with one of Willow's, and lay soothingly on Willow's baby-distended belly. As Tara looked into Willow's eyes she saw only the deepest contentment, a love so strong and whole that it turned her insides a-flutter._

 _And then Willow smiled, a low playful smile, and said, "Come here."_

 _Pulling on Tara's entwined hand, Willow drew Tara over her like a blanket. Their lips met, and Willow pushed against her with familiar insistence, her tongue flicking against Tara's mouth, demanding entry, and Tara more than gladly granted it, feeling her whole soul melt in the abiding sunshine of Willow's love. There on the grass under the tree in their backyard, as Tara heard the bees buzzing around the flowers she had planted, as she smelled the intoxicating aroma of cut grass, as she felt their baby kick underneath her, Tara knew she had found heaven._

Althanea lifted Tara's legs and stretched them out on the couch, then fluffed a pillow and put it under Tara's head. Tara's face was a mask of agony and drops of sweat stood out upon her forehead. Althanea tucked the knitted blanket in tighter, and kissed her once again on the forehead.

"Be well, Tara," her guest called just before exiting the house. Tara could hear the lock click behind her.

Tara could make no reply. For hours she remained in the vise-grip of a master torturer, aching for the sweet oblivion of sleep, but her body screamed and screamed in endless agony, as the pain-fiend continued its relentless hollowing. Even crying hurt too much, but she couldn't stop. A steady and slow leakage of tears wet the pillow beneath her. Too tired to turn on the TV again, even if only for blessed distraction, Tara tried to while away the hours by thinking on her favourite topic.

Willow. Her patient was too clever and intuitive by far. If Tara had known that Willow would deduce so much about her in the first hours of her awakening, she may have held off a bit. The speed of her girl's mind dazzled her. She had no intention of Willow learning so much so fast; she was afraid her girl would go off the deep end, would panic, or would shut down entirely. She hadn't figured on Willow's near-insatiable curiosity, or the quickness of her mind. She should have, though, from what everyone had been telling her. Tara had been blinded by Willow's coma, the helplessness of her girl in her sleep. She realized that she didn't really know Willow at all.

Was she in love with a figment, then? Was this Willow anything like the one who captivated her in her dream? Is she even remotely like the Willow who enchanted her in her mind, who covered her face with kisses, and made her feel whole? Did that Willow even exist?

In the bright of day, sitting at Willow's side, such questions would not have even come to Tara. Only here, manacled by agony, jolted with mental lightnings did her gentle mind go berserk. It was as if Caleb were whispering to her, a voice deep in her mind, whispering of betrayal, and torment, and nonreciprocating love. She was alone here, trembling on the couch as hours of night passed by without sleep. She must have slept, though she didn't recall it. Her eyes were open and red-rimmed when the darkness of night began to abate. Her hands were white-knuckled from clutching at the blanket all night long.

Tara had never been in such pain before, such unrelenting pain. Just when she thought she could feel no more, surely every nerve in her body was already shrieking, there was yet another jangle, another lightning strike, another long purple haze of faint. She fought the faint, terrified of Caleb. She breathed shallowly, in short quick gasps. Her whole world had boiled down to this couch and the conquering of every minute.

Just live, Tara. Just live sixty seconds more. Thirty seconds. Ten seconds. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. One more minute, Tara. Keep breathing. Another minute, Tara.

There were no heaven-threads here to sustain her, no lilies from Peter Whitney. There was no chorus of angelic voices singing a hymn to her devotions. There were no drugs to stand for her in the boxing ring, no narcotics that would allow her to step to the side and lay down the fight, even if only for a while. Round after round Tara boxed with her shadowy adversary, her body weakening, she stumbling, she falling.

And ever and ever Caleb whispered to her, and tried to raise her ire, to blame her misery on her patient. _It's all Willow's fault, you wouldn't be feeling like this if it weren't for Willow, you wouldn't be entertaining me if it weren't for her. You could be happy and working and content, Tara, but instead you are lying on the couch, and I'm devouring you..._

Even the brief periods of unconsciousness were no relief. She would no sooner sink into unknowing depths of sleep when another twinge, another kick would rouse her once again. Tara hovered on the very edge of the spirit world, dancing with The Reaper. Memories skirted past her, fluttering lightly and quickly like butterflies on flowers, dancing from one to another with no sense of direction. She jumped from her childhood to her careful murder of the rabbits, to plucking apples from the orchard to calmly injecting something into a cancer patient.

Yet she lived. Whatever force it was that caused her body such agony, Tara still lived. The purple curtain still stood, shielding her from eternity and the joys within. Some part of her, the part that was tired beyond all reason, wished she could just step through that curtain and finally rejoin her mother. Finally be free.

It was the hope of glorious green eyes that grounded her. As the dawn came, it was Willow's face in her memory that kept her sane, the sound of Willow's name was her mantra. She intoned it again and again.

There, just there on the kitten-abraded couch, Tara stood at the crossroads of her life. For a moment she could see all her destinies, each stretching out into eternity. A million permutations of death, along with a million instances of love. Which path would she follow? There was a choice here to be made. There was always a choice. Aranaea may not believe so, and may try to force a human's hand, but in the end there is always choice.

Will you submit, Tara? Call the pain-fiend your master? Beg for the narcotics to dull it and give you peace? Will you slide down that slippery slope of narcotic haze, and do everything in your power to fog the pain away?

Or will you fight, Tara? Call upon your anger, and wage war with the pain, curse it, and revile it? Descend into depths of rage, and blame the gods for your anguish?

Or will you understand, Tara? Sink into your cells, allow yourself to feel every twinge, every rocket, every tear? When the pain hollows you will you still bless it?

So she struggled, there in the clear light of dawn. So she gazed down the avenues of her life's choices, and saw them for the truth they bore. So inspired, the ghostly memory of the arms of Maia supporting her, Tara closed all other doors except one.

Understanding.

No fighting. No submitting. Just understanding.

Could she honestly live the rest of her life this way? With unrelenting pain, hour after hour? Clutching feverishly to thin blankets, jaws clenched, sweat streaming, the only outlet of agony through hot tears? If so she could not bear it, not alone.

Could she overcome her martyrdom, her insane desire to keep Willow safe, and let Willow in? She had relented, once, under the willow tree, and allowed herself to be cherished, protected, and loved. That moment became the greatest moment of love and devotion she had ever known, and the memory of it soothed her far more than her thin knitted blanket. Could she finally open up her wall, and let Willow truly see? Did she really have to be alone? How many more instances of love could Willow show her?

Still no choir came. No heavenly voices. No warmth or joy or moment of peace. Nothing but a small and hard knot forming deep within her. Her eyes closed, Tara reflected on this knot, and considered it. It was a tiny thing, covered with a sort of grime. Meditating deeply, Tara mentally took up the little knob and turned it in her hands. With a fingernail, she scratched, and under the surface layer of grit lay a stone of unfathomable beauty. It was a diamond, clear and exquisitely crafted, glittering with every facet of the rainbow.

And Tara considered this diamond, and sunk her awareness inside it.

Just as coal under pressure becomes a diamond, so did Tara's soul amplify. And she beheld a vision of herself as a middle-aged woman, and the vision was almost too extraordinary to be borne. For she stood tall, strong, and humble, three light scars down her cheek and the wind from the sea gently lifting her waist-length golden hair. She stood upon the bluff, and the power of her light was far greater than that of any mere lighthouse, for she was safe harbour, and the light of her soul attracted hundreds, thousands, millions of struggling people. She was a candle lit from within, she was serenity, she was transformation. And her eyes, oh her eyes! Her eyes held no wall yet held no secrets. Within them was found the horrors of her father, the blackened pools, the hateful words. Within them was also found peace, and redemption, and forgiveness. And, most astonishing of all, within them was a love, a love far greater than any seen on earth for thousands of years.

She was built of love, every particle of her being vibrated with it, and the soft luminescence of that love shimmered through the air around her, beckoning all others to come and partake.

And the heart of that love, and the source of that transformation, was Willow.

For there, in the heart of the diamond, there pulsed two colours: green and blue. They resided there in bubbling felicity, in domestic bliss, in unending adoration. They were subsumed; they were two, but now they were one. Now it was obvious to all that Tara, and everything that made Tara wonderful, was really a combination of Tara + Willow. A simple mathematical equation. One plus one equals infinity.

And they wandered the world, and they blessed the world, and together they healed the world of its sorrows.

The hollowing, the most dreadful hollowing, the pain-fiend devouring everything inside her, it was all to her good. That's all pain ever was. To her good. Curse it, fight it, rail against it, deaden it with drugs, and it would corrupt her. But embrace it, and love it, and cherish it, and thank the gods for it?

Hollow no longer. For the gluttonous pain-fiend scraped her soul clean without intending to. Caleb may have sent it, that agony, as just another minion of the First, but the gods sanctified it. The choice, the choice had been made. Understanding. And every cubic inch of her hollowed body was filled with love. Yes, there was pain. There could be pain for every minute of her life that remained to her.

And it was good.

And it came to pass that as the sun crested the lip of the world, painting a highway along the rippling waters of the sea, eagerly entering her house, embossing her living room in light and shadow, Tara finally fell asleep.

Tara dreamed.

And a goddess came unto her, as Tara lay on a yellow blanket on a beach on Ash Island. Her head was broken, and oozing cherry droplets that beaded on the fuzzy surface of the blanket. Her neck was gashed open by sharp incisors. There was a sword sticking out of her side and there was a curved knife thrust in her belly.

Tara watched the goddess approach, and the goddess was the embodiment of youth and beauty. She was clad in a gown of shimmering starlight, of wishes, and her face radiated a love deeper than Tara had ever felt. Her eyes were green, the sea green of tranquil waters. Her hair was white, and cascaded down her shoulders like new-fallen snow. Tara knew if she buried her face in that hair that it would smell of sandalwood and roses.

The goddess lifted her hands and a scythe appeared, burnished silver and red. "What part will you play?" goddess-Willow asked.

And Tara knew, for she had read the script, and seen the ending. She knew she lived, for she stood upon the bluff and there were scars on her face. That meant that the goddess, that Willow would save her. That meant that she was worth saving after all. That meant that every reason for the wall was now gone. She would be the tool, the bridge

 _(the lamb)_

and the light of her conviction shone in her eyes. She stood, careful not to jostle the metal sticking out of her body. She approached her love, her only

 _(my always)_

and said, "I will love you. To the ends of the earth I will love you. Until my body fades into dust I will love you. And beyond the great purple curtain, I will love you."

Willow looked upon Tara, upon her great and vicious wounds, and she despaired. The scythe dropped from her hands and disappeared in a shower of dust. She came upon Tara, and cast her eyes over the sword, the curved knife, the beaded drops like a crown on her head. "The hollowing is almost complete. Once you are empty, be careful of what you choose to put back in," Willow said softly.

And Tara couldn't look at her. She yearned to fall into Willow's arms, but there was a sword, and a knife.

 _(Tara, why won't you look at me?)_

Because my need of you overpowers me.

So Willow approached, and plucked the sword from her side, and wrenched the knife from her belly, and instead of blood there was a flood of celestial flowers. One step, then two, and Tara was pulled into Willow's arms.

"I am close, Tara," Willow whispered, and she faded away.

Tara came awake slowly, reliving her conversation with Willow over and over again. The similarities between this dream and the one she had the day Peter Whitney died astonished her. She woke on the couch, her legs and hands still leaden with fatigue, her head still marching to the beat of the manacle bearing torturer, a sting on her neck and in her side. She allowed her eyes to flutter open. Tara finally understood.

Time to get back to work.


	26. Hush

**Chapter Twenty Six**

 **Hush**

To the anguished mind of Willow Rosenberg, it seemed that the night would never end. She woke every few hours, listened to the steady hissing and beeping of her machines, saw the glow of the hall-lights, and thought of Tara. If sleep continued to evade her, she took a moment to do a little more healing on her legs, but that exercise didn't take long to exhaust her. After being in a coma for two weeks she simply didn't have the reserves she was used to.

She was awake when the glow of the daystar began to illuminate her room. It would take a long time for the sun to shine fully on the exquisite courtyard, so she entertained herself by watching the clouds change colour. First they were bathed in purple, like a great curtain, or a veil. Then faint swatches of pink and yellow stained the underbellies of the clouds, and finally the sky faded from indigo to cerulean. Willow wondered if the colour was the exact shade of her nurse's eyes.

Tara. Every thought led back to her and Willow certainly didn't understand why. In the few days since she had awakened, Tara had been her support system, exuding a sense of familiarity and friendship that surprised the young witch. Tara made her nervous. She had been friends with girls before, obviously. Buffy had been her best friend for years. They would sometimes hold hands when walking down the streets, they had even slept in the same bed before. But Buffy never made her insides feel like this.

When she saw Tara it was like her entire brain shut down, reducing her to animal noises and general dim-wittedness. She was surprised to realize just how much Tara's good opinion meant to her, and she reined in her usually unbridled tongue just so she could sound smarter to her nurse. She may have an IQ of a genius, but there was something about Tara, the way that Tara would look at her, that would derail any of her carefully prepared sentences. The brown-haired woman intrigued her and made her feel decidedly odd. It wasn't a bad sensation; quite the contrary, Willow was quite sure that she could grow addicted to whatever feeling it was.

It wasn't until yesterday she discovered just how much she owed Tara. To think that this unknown woman had taken in a complete stranger, had run amok of demons and vampires, had done muscle-tearing healing, and still managed to make Willow feel like the most precious thing on earth. Maybe that was this unknown sensation, this feeling of being the absolute focus of another person. In the early days Oz had made her feel a little like that. It was a heady, drunken feeling, and she nursed its eventual disappointments just like a hangover. Sure, it was lovely at the time, but as years passed the relationship became confusing, and hurty, and definitely not worth it.

Willow would do anything to make Tara smile, for whenever Tara smiled it seemed that the whole world was at peace, her tortured soul with it. When Tara smiled Willow could forget about Hellmouths and vampires and the burden of being alone. When Tara smiled it was like she held Willow in the palm of her hand, a diamond of infinite worth, cherished, protected. But Tara was far from smiling now. Willow had eavesdropped, and had discovered something ominous, and she couldn't even reveal her knowledge to anyone else without being branded a spy. Rabbits. Demons. Fainting.

She bent her considerable intellect to the task of breaking down that conversation. First, Tara is ill. Second, she can't take the rabbits anymore. Willow immediately tossed out the idea of traveling with rabbits somewhere, that obviously wasn't it. Willow thought back to the time when she resurrected Buffy, how she had to take the life of a deer. Was it something similar? Magic was ripe in blood, maybe there was something about a rabbits blood that aided Tara, that didn't work now.

 _(She can't take the rabbits any more)_

What had changed? She used to be able to take the rabbits, however that was. Now she couldn't. Was this yet another thing that was Willow's fault? The very idea frightened Willow. Was it more of Caleb's doing?

As the sun rose, as day began to break over the walls of the hospice, Willow contained her mounting anxiety the best she could. Would Tara come? Could Tara come? What would she do if Tara wasn't coming? April was nice enough, and she surely knew her job very well, but that at least put to rest the niggling worry that Tara was being only a nurse to Willow. April didn't speckle her comments with endearments, she didn't continually touch Willow on the hand, on the leg, or on her feet. She smiled, but it wasn't the same soul-quirking and infectious smile that Tara gave.

April didn't make Willow feel like the center of the universe. Tara did.

Willow was glad that she at least reasoned that out. Willow was a great follower of logic; which may have surprised some of her fellow Wiccans. They all thought magic was nothing more than manipulation of the natural order of things but Willow was a scientist. All magic worked within the laws of science, and the laws of logic naturally followed. All she had to do to prove her theory that Tara was not merely a nurse to her was to watch Tara in contact with another patient. That would be unlikely here; Tara had already explained how the hospice worked, with one-on-one patient/nurse interactions. She could try to scry on Tara, to get a glimpse of what the girl was like when she wasn't at work, but the thought made Willow grimace. That would be a misuse of magic if there ever was one.

No, she'd just have to trust her instincts. And after seven years of fighting the most cunning adversaries imaginable, Willow had developed a strong set of instincts. She was a little tightly wound, too, but at least she had instincts.

It was the wall that did it. That and the words 'Oh, my love,' that Tara had intoned at start of shift yesterday, the words Tara thought that Willow didn't hear. Willow heard them all right; she had been playing possum when her nurse came in, just to see what would happen. The wall, however, Tara would have needed no wall unless there was something to hide. Because the wall was there, Willow knew there was a secret as well. And as fantastic and improbable as it seemed, as unworthy as it made her feel, Willow thought she knew what the secret was.

Tara was in love with her.

Willow had no idea how or why such love came about, but as she thought on it, the morning light seeping into her room, the more it made sense to her. Her flash of insight yesterday when Dr. Daniels came in, she had known he was in love with Tara but that she didn't return that love. Even Althanea had hinted to it; her vituperation had stung Willow and forced her to think the whole thing through.

 _(Just what does Tara mean to you, Willow?)_

Althanea didn't make Willow angry, she had merely confirmed Willow's hypothesis that she was more than a mere patient, a little project, a tiny blip to Tara. With that one question, Willow's world had opened up to the possibility of Tara loving her. Willow wondered if Althanea really knew just how effective an interrogator she was. Willow, after seven years of demon-hunting, mentally took notes on Althanea's style, committing it to memory, vowing to find an opportunity to use it herself.

The clock ticked closer to eight o'clock and Willow watched it anxiously. At times it almost seemed to slow down, stop altogether, go backwards even! She wasn't even sure that it would be Tara coming today... it was Friday after all, Tara was sick

 _(She had a fainting spell. Do you know how ill she is?)_

and she may not be coming in to work today, what with the weekend so close and all. The mere thought caused Willow's throat to tighten. She spent the next few minutes pondering that throat closure, the beating of her heart, the sweatiness of her palms.

I'm straight.

Logic, Rosenberg. You say you're straight, but what is this feeling in your chest? Why does your heart ache so at the mere thought of this woman? Why do you continually stare at her breasts, at her lips? What is this warmth between your legs when you wonder what it would be like to press your lips against hers? Why is she so familiar to you?

 _(I think I would die for her.)_

When Willow said it, she knew it was true. There was something about Tara, something soft and vulnerable that Tara tried so hard to hide behind a wall of professional detachment. Willow had never felt so strongly about someone so fast before, not even Buffy. Buffy had confused her in the beginning, with overtures of friendship with Willow the geek that Willow simply didn't understand. Her relationship with Buffy turned out to be one of the most rewarding of her life. Now another girl had entered, and Willow was even more confused than before. What was there in Willow Rosenberg that had attracted these beautiful, self-assured women? Would this relationship be even more spectacular than the one she shared with Buffy? Would there, could there, be love?

And would eight o'clock never come?

Willow looked out into the courtyard again. What did Tara mean to her? Time for an experiment, Rosenberg, to prove that hypothesis. You believe Tara is in love with you? Well today, just today, you'll watch. Watch Tara, watch the wall in her eyes, watch every move she makes, listen to every sound that comes out of her mouth, feel every shiver that comes across your spine when she trails her fingers over you. Watch, Willow.

Watch and learn.

Willow watched the clock. At two minutes past eight, she heard footsteps down the hall and cursed herself for not memorizing Tara's stride yet. It could be anyone, it could be April, John, or Dr. Daniels himself. It could be the lady with the breakfast tray and the little paper cup of pills. It could be the cleaning lady.

It could be Tara.

And Tara it was.

Tara stood in the doorway of Willow's room and looked in, her hand on the doorframe. Her hair was pulled back in her perennial ponytail, and the three slashes down her face looked angry. Her face was pale, with two spots of colour high on her cheeks, a hint of darkness under her eyes. She was wearing the most adorable scrubs Willow had ever seen, with dancing teddy bears on them. She stood a long time in that doorway, and they looked at each other.

Note that in your experiment, Rosenberg. Note how your heart soared when she walked in.

Tara walked in slowly, yet deliberately; she seemed to have lost the shuffle she was using yesterday. Neither of them had yet spoken, neither of their eyes turned away from each other. Each step Tara took to get to her bedside Willow's heart ached greater and greater. There was something different about Tara, something essential. What happened to the woman yesterday who could not even look at her?

At first Willow thought it was some trick of the light in the room, deflecting somehow off the waterfall in the courtyard, passing through the double-thick panes of glass. Tara was glowing. The sight of her took Willow's breath away, and she closed her eyes momentarily to get a grip. But there, even through the pinkness of her eyelids she could see Tara shine with an ethereal glow. The reading of aura's was a talent that Willow had never really been blessed with, but looking at Tara Willow knew that even the most mundane of eyes could surely see Tara glow, her eight chakra connected with the infinite love of the universe, sending waves of compassion in her wake.

Tara was drawing closer, so Willow opened her eyes. It was not a long space by any means, the distance between the door and her bed, but Willow was captured by time, and it seemed that she watched Tara approach for hours. Still no words. Willow's eyes were fixated on the eyes of her nurse, and they were indeed the most glorious cerulean blue, the blue of mountain lakes, the blue of bellflowers. There was a tightness around them, a most careful positioning, and Willow instantly knew that her nurse was in considerable pain.

Finally her nurse was hovering merely a foot away, standing by the bed where Willow lay, half-reclining at her ease. She felt anything but ease. Her emotions were roiling inside her, a dozen of them battling for supremacy in this most surreal of moments. She was only peripherally aware of this monumental battle inside her own skull, as she was busy drowning in the depths of Tara's eyes.

Logic, Rosenberg. Ordinary people don't 'drown' in other people's eyes. That's for Hallmark movies of the week and dime store romances.

Shut up, Rosenberg.

Tara still had not taken her eyes off of Willow. Yesterday Willow had accused this woman of hiding secrets, of keeping tales. No such illusions remained. Willow stared straight into the eyes of Tara Maclay and saw everything. Willow saw aching fatigue and mental exhaustion. She saw vast amounts of pain, clenching and tearing agonies. She saw darkness, a great black wall of adamant where Caleb was held prisoner against his will. She saw courage, determination, and resilience.

Willow saw love.

And the pureness of it, the intensity of it caused her to quake and tremble. She could see her whole life pass through the blue of Tara's eyes. And where she might have been frightened, before, preoccupied with needless concern, Willow now felt only fulfillment. Tara had thrust a key into a lock in her mind.

I was a prisoner.

What else happened in my mind?

They still had not spoken any words.

Peace enveloped them in a blanket composed of heaven-threads. The lady came in with Willow's breakfast and Tara fed it to Willow without any hesitation. Willow gladly let her. Tara filled a basin with warm water and lathered shampoo into Willow's hair which smelt delightfully of sandalwood and roses. Tara's fingers lovingly caressed every inch of Willow's skull, rubbing, probing, amplifying the ache that was steadily growing in Willow's chest.

Who was the author of this passion? What poet composed this symphony of neurons, this crescendo of glorious heartache? The pressure mounted inside her until every particle of her ached for some sort of release. Unable to voice her feelings, and definitely unable to act upon them, Willow merely stared at Tara, memorizing the configuration of her nose, the exact placement of her mouth, the dimples on her cheeks.

How's the experiment coming, Rosenberg?

Tara put away the bathing things and combed Willow's hair, and Willow could feel the strands of her hair being combed, then pulled through Tara's fingers, again and again. That necessary ministration now complete, Tara moved to Willow's other side. She pulled over a stainless steel cart and sat down. First Tara caressed her hand, and ran the tips of her sensuous fingers over the abrasions on Willow's knuckles. She then looked at Willow, and her smile was like the sun rising.

Willow was sure her heart faltered in that moment. It surrendered. And when it resumed ticking, she knew that nothing would ever be the same again. There was no remorse for her loss of innocence, only excitement. What wonders would Tara show her?

For their music they had the beeping of machines, and Tara's talented hands almost danced as they competently withdrew the IV that had been chaining Willow to her bed for weeks. Pressing a wad of gauze to the tiny injury, Willow watched as Tara put tape over it, and she watched as Tara lifted her hand to her lips, and she watched as Tara's lips pressed down gently on her abraded knuckles.

Now this wasn't the first time that Tara's lips had come in contact with her skin. Just yesterday as Tara was leaving Willow with Althanea, Tara kissed her on the cheek. Willow reflected on that brief kiss and its accompanying warmth again and again throughout the long night. Now, with Tara's wall down, this brief feathery kiss on her knuckles didn't merely surprise her, it also sent a cascade of warmth down her whole body, and her skin swept into goosebumps.

Tara peered at her over her taped hand and her eyes were dancing in mirth.

Cheeky miss. Willow vowed to get even with her for that one.

Hmm. Getting even. What a delightful prospect.

Tara's glow continued to sustain Willow as the morning progressed. She stood on her feet for the first time, leaning heavily on Tara for support. Resting frequently, Willow triumphed by finally walking (if you could call it walking) to the bathroom. Far better than a bedpan. Even as she tottered forth, Willow knew it was only because of Tara and Althanea. Tara for most of her healed body, Althanea for her legs. Tara still wordlessly urged her to do three short bouts of physical therapy, and Willow was exhausted and in pain when they were finished. In the resting times between the careful manipulation of her limbs, Tara sat next to Willow and held her hand. Neither of them said a word.

And Willow couldn't help but remember the only other day in her whole life when she had been this quiet. It wasn't really her choice. A bunch of fairy tale demons had stolen everyone's voices, and then the hearts of seven select sacrificial victims. Willow pondered the white magic of this day compared with the black magic of that one. Willow had managed to keep her heart intact last time. This time, no such luck. Far better for Tara to have her heart than some nameless beast.

But whatever power had been sustaining Tara in the morning had started to give way as the afternoon progressed. Willow could see Tara's difficulty getting up from the chair in which she sat. She could see how carefully Tara sat down. The shuffle reappeared as Tara didn't have the strength to lift her feet from the floor. Tara's fingers strayed to her temples for absent rubbing when she thought Willow wasn't looking.

Willow was always looking. There wasn't a single moment during that entire day when she voluntarily took her eyes off her nurse. Her eyes open, her mouth shut, Willow watched Tara struggle through the rest of that great and terrible day.

And as the hours passed, Willow's torment grew. The pain her nurse was in was unacceptable. Willow was so used to getting her own way, for finding an answer to even the most impossible riddles that this problem frustrated her to no end. Several times during the day Willow had contact with Tara's skin, mostly through hand-holding, and every time Willow attempted to call upon the energies of the universe to heal her friend. And every time, the answer was no. Every time she tried, she encountered a seamless and vast great black wall.

Only a friend, Willow?

 _(Just what does Tara mean to you, Willow?)_

It was almost six o'clock. Tara would be leaving soon, and Willow wouldn't see her for the entire weekend. The prospect of two whole days without Tara unnerved her. Not that she begrudged Tara's time off, she knew how needed it was, it was just... complicated.

 _(Why complicated, Will?)_

She could almost see Buffy ask the question. It was as if her best friend was sitting on the corner of her bed, still dressed in her Slayer duds. Would Buffy understand the vast change, the revolution in her heart, the castle of her past under siege? Her heart's total surrender? Why complicated?

Because of Tara.

Because of the whisper of conversation she shouldn't have heard. Because of rabbits and more than that, so much more. Because the only time she felt alive was when Tara was with her.

Logic, Rosenberg. Why does Tara make you feel this way?

I DON'T KNOW!

Could Willow love a woman? With anyone else, Willow would have said no. She took too much comfort in the familiar; needed the familiar relationships in a world where almost every week there was a new challenge to overcome. But now, with all her friends gone, the unfamiliar loomed over her, and it was frightening, but only until she thought of Tara. With Tara at her side, Willow believed she could face those unending years without the Scoobies. With Tara at her side, Willow could continue to fight the forces of darkness. With Tara at her side, Willow could feel worthy of love, and could share that love with the purest soul she had ever encountered.

It wasn't that Tara was a woman. It wasn't that Willow may be gay. It was simply that Tara completed her, filled in the little spaces of her heart and soul. Love knows nothing of gender. Straight or gay, love is love.

Logic, Rosenberg. Has anyone, anyone at all, ever made you feel like this? Xander, when you were first crushing on him the same time as he was crushing on Buffy? Oz, when he couldn't take his eyes off you in that silly Eskimo suit? Use your head, Rosenberg.

And be honest.

And Willow looked at Tara. Tara who was luminous even when washing her hands. Who shone like a pillar even when looking out the window. Who radiated compassion and love like the sun. Tara who loved her. Against all odds, Tara loved her.

How could she let Tara go without saying something? Willow didn't want to speak, the hush was magical, and entombed them as if they were under the umbrella of a tree. But how to let her nurse know how she felt, how worried she was at their impending separation of only a few days? By and large, Willow wasn't a student of subtlety. She could be rather blunt and tactless on occasion. Her mouth usually got her into trouble, and yes, sometimes out of trouble, too.

One minute, Rosenberg. Decide now.

Tara was gazing at her. Willow's heart was furiously pounding. Her skin ached all over, every muscle in her body cried for a single touch, a single caress. Her experiment had boiled down to this one moment. She almost felt faint with desire, with the arousal that began as a single hard nub between her legs and had now spread to shake her extremities. Willow honestly believed she would die, absolutely die if Tara didn't touch her now.

Where has this feeling been all your life, Willow? Why has it taken more than twenty years to feel it? Where was it when you were with Xander, when you were with Oz?

Tara was gazing at her, and her heart was in her eyes. Willow could see the immensity of it, could see the ethereal glow that shimmered on her like a mirage. Quite deliberately, Willow forced herself to think of Xander as a romantic interest. She shuddered, and chucked him out the window. Then she forced herself to think of Oz, and she stood up the phantom Oz next to the glowing Tara and compared the two.

 _(You deserve so much more than I can give you)_

And the key Tara thrust into the lock in her mind, it turned.

Tara was gazing at her, and Willow's eyes blurred in tears. This is the moment. You've been waiting your whole life for this. The experiment is over, Willow. You're in real life now.

She stilled the impulse to wipe the tears away; she left her hands at her sides as the tears began to roll ponderously down her cheeks.

Come to me, Tara.

And Tara's face was anguished, her eyes melted, and she took a step towards Willow, then two.


	27. Ethics

**Chapter Twenty Seven**

 **Ethics**

Willow was crying.

Tara stood by the doorway and her face was white. The greedy pain fiend had moved inside her skull and was methodically scraping and gnawing every bit of her. She looked on her girl, and Willow's mouth was slightly open, tears were trickling down her cheeks, her hands lay at her sides and her eyes, oh her eyes were calling her name, without words they were calling her name.

The entire day had felt surreal to Tara. It was a sense of self-preservation that had her almost rebuild the wall behind her eyes again when she first moved down the halls to Willow's room this morning. Floating on her near-angelic experience with Goddess Willow, Tara was almost nervous about entering real Willow's room. But her concern that she was in love with a figment dissolved the moment she looked into her girl's eyes. Habit is hard to break, and it took a great deal of effort for Tara to keep the wall down the entire day, to keep her gaze clear and honest. The pain had removed her somewhat from the world and she floated like a nebula down those halls and into Willow's room.

There was no mistaking the delight she saw in Willow's eyes. And neither of them spoke a single word as the long hours of the day passed them by. Tara couldn't keep her hands off her patient; she needed to be touching her somehow, all day long. And Willow couldn't keep her eyes off Tara, and everywhere she went she felt the gaze of Willow Rosenberg. A gaze that started curious, went confused, went calculating, and then went scorching hot.

And now, despite Willow's tears, the eyes that fluttered beneath wet eyelashes were looking on Tara with a desire that melted her to her core. It was a look that Tara wasn't sure she would get in the waking world, and it meant so much more to her here. She almost pinched herself to be sure that she was on the outside; she was awake, not dreaming. There she stood in her scrubs and Willow was crying for her.

Tara could see what would happen next.

She would close the door behind her. She would walk to Willow's bedside, where Willow would slide over enough to give her a place to sit. Sitting down, she would use her thumbs to gently wipe away Willow's tears. Her thumbs would follow the swell of Willow's delicate cheekbones, her fingers would extend to wrap around Willow's ears.

And Willow would kiss her. With her chapped lips and broken body Willow would kiss her. She would lean into her, and her warm breath would be a caress on Tara's skin, her watery eyes would stay open, tracking Tara's lips, guiding them unerringly on hers. And once Willow kissed her, Willow would remember it all, every moment stolen from them by the coma, and the tentative and hesitant love showing now in Willow's eyes would be transformed in the soulfire of memory.

So she took a step to her, then two, because this was the moment she'd been waiting for. Her life would begin again the moment she kissed those lips.

But there was a tap on her shoulder and Tara about jumped out of her skin. She turned around, blushing furiously, heart pounding, blinking at Penny. Penny looked apologetic, but she said in her neat southern drawl, "Tara, there is a phone call for you. It's Althanea?" Penny hastily retreated and Tara looked back at Willow. What could she say?

In the same near-magical hush that had encapsulated them all day, there was nothing to say.

And her brave girl, sitting on the bed, she knew how important Althanea was, so she wiped her tears and she waved Tara away.

So Tara turned, and left Willow bathing in her own tears, and her heart broke as she did so. There was a tiny measure of relief as she strode down the hallway; she had been far too close to crossing the line. If she had gone to Willow then something

 _(kissing rapture)_

would have happened for certain. Ethan was already worried; in their ill-fated lunch conversation yesterday he had warned her about getting too close to Willow. Ethics, morality, crossing the line, getting fired even, it worried Tara a little. For all her adult life her job had defined her and given her a purpose when she had no other. There was joy in the blood-debt, a pleasure in the pain. As much as she desired to take Willow in her arms and kiss her senseless, Tara knew that she had to be careful if she wanted to keep her job. And her job was important, wasn't it?

"Althanea?" she asked after picking up the slim phone at the nurse's station.

"Tara, are you all right?" Althanea immediately asked. "I felt so bad leaving you last night."

"I'm okay," Tara said, only partly lying. "Are you all right? Did you find..." and Tara looked at the other nurses working near the station and revised her question, "What you were looking for?"

"When you don't want demons, they're everywhere. Look for them and they disappear," Althanea replied glumly. "Don't worry, we'll keep looking. We'll find one for you, I promise."

"Althanea, please be careful," Tara pleaded.

"My dear, don't worry," the witch replied. Tara could hear some whispering in the background, and Althanea's palm must have covered the phone before she said, "Angel wishes to speak to you for a moment, Tara."

"Oh, all right," Tara said, surprised.

"Tara, how is Willow doing?" he asked immediately.

Tara surged in jealousy again and forced it down. He's an old friend, Tara. He's worked with her for seven years. Of course he wants to know how she is doing. "She's doing really well, Angel," Tara said. "She's healing herself very quickly."

"When will she be released?"

Never. I'm keeping her forever.

"Another week, perhaps," Tara replied.

"My friends and I finally located the scythe," Angel continued. "We'll have it ready for her."

The scythe. How could Tara have forgotten about the scythe? There was a strange ringing in her ears, and she floated through the rest of her conversation with Angel without knowing what exactly he said. She finally hung up the phone and stood at the edge of the nurse's station, trembling.

"Tara, are you all right?"

It was a nebulous question, floating to her from beyond a great wall, beyond a great fog. The scythe, the terrible scythe, the one that Willow would hold in her hands, raise up beyond her shoulders; it would speed down to crunch through Tara's neck bones. As she pictured this horror, there was a great and victorious yowl in her mind, and she was mercilessly jolted with a sharp stab of mental lightning.

Staggering, Tara clutched at the counter at the nurse's station. She was barely aware of the hands that encircled her shoulders, of the voices calling in her ears, for she was sliding down a great black chute and Caleb was at the bottom. Standing there, pristine in his black clothes, the white spot at his throat glowing with the luminescence of long-dead algae, his eyes black, his arms open wide in a grand benediction.

Hello again, Tara. Would you like to play? There's all sorts of fun to be had and the reaver is coming. With the scythe she is coming. To kill you she is coming. How's about we practice for a spell, first? Don't want to disappoint the reaver now, do we?

 _(scalpel)_

Tara would have screamed.

But she was already unconscious on the floor.

Tara had no idea how long she was in the grip of Caleb, how long he tortured her in the darkness, how long she screamed in his maniacal clutches, but her poor pathetic soul thought it may have been years. When she finally opened her eyes again she began to weep with relief, and then with horror. The world seemed muzzy and indistinct, but she could smell the hospice smells, and feel cool linen underneath her. "Thank God," she heard Ethan say.

She looked at him through teary eyes. She was in an unoccupied room, laying in a hospital bed. "Tara, you have got to stop doing this to me," he said, his voice shaking. "I know you can't love me the way I love you but it's tearing me apart to see you like this!" She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he continued like a freight train. "Is it because of what you did for Willow? Is it because of Caleb?"

"Yes," Tara breathed.

"This isn't normal, Tara," Ethan continued. "I want to do some tests, okay? Something is going on inside you that we don't understand."

Tara froze. She fully understood Willow's trepidation earlier about the tests; sometimes it was easier to live without knowing. What if they found something in the tests, something abnormal? Her hopes and dreams, already precarious, already thinning under the onslaught of Caleb's scalpel, would vanish like moonbeams. "Can you wait, please?" she asked softly. "Wait until after I try the demon?"

He ran his hand through his hair and she smiled to see the familiar gesture. "Promise me, Tara," he said earnestly, "Promise me that if the demon doesn't work, we'll try some tests."

"I promise," she said. Trembling with exhaustion, her limbs leaden with fatigue, Tara closed her eyes again and rested against the thin hospital-issue pillow. The first image that passed through her mind was one of Caleb, of his grasping her head between his hands and twisting... Tara shook her head and forced herself to think of something else.

Willow. She left Willow. She needed to go back. The plea that was in Willow's eyes as Tara stood in the doorway, the clock ticking past six o'clock, the anxiety written plainly over her face, and Tara had just left her. What was her girl thinking? Could Willow be thinking that Tara didn't care? She would be wondering why Tara didn't return right away after the phone call. She would be expecting Tara to tell her what Althanea had said. She would be confused, crying again even.

"What time is it?" Tara asked, opening her eyes.

"Eight o'clock," Ethan replied. "Do you want me to take you home?"

Tara made up her mind. In a way, her fainting attack and subsequent torture by Caleb had opened her heart to something. What cared she about her job? She needed Willow. She needed something that only Willow could provide. And finally, finally Tara was beginning to hope that she might be worth something to Willow. Maybe she didn't always have to be a paragon. Tara recalled the moment under the willow tree, when she allowed herself to be vulnerable, to be protected, and the memory filled her with longing.

Hiding all the pain she felt from Willow seemed like such a good idea at the time, but now it made no sense to her at all. She knew if the circumstances were reversed that she would feel hurt (devastated!) if Willow didn't ask for her help, for Tara to be with her during her ordeal. Tara finally dared to believe that she didn't have to suffer alone.

Tara remembered Sue, how Sue didn't even notice that Tara was dying. And now that Tara felt like dying again, the pain fiend hollowing her, she didn't have the strength to go it alone. After all, where was her love?

 _(I am close, Tara.)_

Tara looked at Ethan then, at the softness in his brown eyes, and she wished him only happiness. "No, Ethan," she softly intoned. "I'm going to stay here tonight. With Willow."

He was confused. "On the couch?" he asked. She had done it before, with almost every one of her patients. He could allow that. She could sleep on the couch.

"No, Ethan," she replied, blushing. "I need her to hold me tonight."

Ethan's face fell, and she could see the war within him. "Tara, please," he said. "You know I can't allow, I mean, it's against policy... you know, Tara!"

"I know." Her eyes were luminous and determined.

He stood, and his face was clearly conflicted. "I can talk to the other staff, especially John," he said quietly, "but I'll have to write you an official reprimand."

"I know."

"Why are you doing this? You just can't wait? Willow is getting better so quickly. In another week she may be discharged," he said, anguished. "Tara, I don't want to fire you. Your work has been exemplary, everyone likes you, you are so incredibly gifted, why are you willing to throw it all away? Please, Tara, just wait!"

Tara couldn't answer. All she could see was Willow's face, the tears trickling down her cheeks, the eyes that had finally looked upon her with desire. She had answered Althanea's similar question by showing her what happened under the tree, but there was no way she was sharing those memories with Ethan. It would break him. And she loved him too much for that.

She needed Willow. And by the response Willow gave her today, by her actions that spoke louder than any words ever could, she knew that Willow would understand. She could stand in Willow's doorway, and walk slowly to her bed, and crawl in beside her, and Willow wouldn't turn her away.

And though Caleb would have her quivering with fear, despairing in a loss of hope, she held on to the one thing that was certain in her life: she loved Willow. It was time to discover if Willow loved her back. There was no cocoon of coma anymore to protect them both. A long time ago it seemed to her that she stood by Willow's bed for the first time, vowing to do anything it would take. She didn't know back then that she would be sacrificing everything for Willow, even her job.

But the pain was too much, she was hollowed. Time to fill her up again, with the love of the woman who was finally ready to share it with her, and ethics be damned.


	28. Paladin of Souls

Chapter Twenty Eight

Paladin of Souls

The sun was setting. Willow had been half-heartedly reading a battered copy of 'Runaway Jury' she found in the dresser drawer by her bed, but after she had read the same page several times she decided to just stop. Besides, the light was fading and she hadn't turned on a lamp yet. The darkness was more comforting to her now, and there was just enough light coming through the open doorway. She looked out the window at the waterfall in the courtyard; the setting sun had cast the garden into shadow, and all the flowers seemed dark and almost menacing. The geraniums, bright red by day, now looked malignant and diseased in the shadows, and Willow sighed.

I'm frozen.

She had sat for a long time, expecting Tara to return to her. She understood that Tara had to leave, she knew that Althanea was going to Los Angeles and that Tara would need to speak to her. She just thought that Tara would come and see her before leaving work, would tell her what Althanea said, would realize that Willow had just put her heart on the line for her...

But hours passed, not minutes. Knowing Murphy's Law the way she did, Willow finally fished around for a book, thinking that the minute she got engrossed in it would be the minute that Tara would return to her. It was in vain. Tara was gone for the entire weekend, and if the rest of the two days were anything like the past two hours, Willow was in trouble. She felt the emptiness within her, and her shattered little heart considered what her life would be like without Tara in it. Could she even consider such a monstrous idea? Days, months, years without little Tara-endearments, without the clear and loving gaze, without those enchanting blue eyes?

So she looked out the window, the pages of the book open on her lap, and she marveled at the change within her. The most astonishing thing of all was that this didn't feel so strange to her, this, say it Willow, this love for Tara. It felt comfortable, and familiar, and wild and exciting at the same time. She could feel something just out of reach, just beyond her sight, and she drove herself mad trying to uncover it.

Breadcrumbs.

I'm broken.

All day long she was a castle under siege. In that comforting cloak of silence, Tara's warm hands battered her defenses, her soft fingers through Willow's hair were mangonels heaving great boulders at the ramparts of Willow's final silly objections. As six o'clock rolled around, Willow was preparing the white flag, for she had finally surrendered. The woman who stood before her, who served her so faithfully, she was the paladin of Willow's soul, the instrument of Willow's peace, the author of Willow's happiness. And just as Willow realized it, had declared her experiment an absolute success, her paladin had fled, leaving Willow alone in her castle, her walls dashed to ruin, unprotected.

Willow couldn't even cry any more. She had cried enough already. She wore her heart on her sleeve, had opened up her frail little soul, and Tara had taken a step towards her, then two. Willow knew what she had hoped would happen. She was going to close the door behind Tara, with magic if need be, and Tara was going to walk to her side. Willow was going to shuffle over on her bed to make room for her nurse, and then her nurse was going to take her hot and desperate face in her long-fingered hands, wipe her tears away, and kiss her. And with that kiss, everything would become clear, the breadcrumbs would illuminate the path into her subconscious, and her magic would supply the rest.

But Tara left.

And she didn't come back.

So Willow looked out the window, and lost herself in watching the clouds change colour. She didn't hear their approach; she only noticed that someone was at her door when there was a quick knock. Willow turned her head despondently, and then her heart flew into her throat with dizzying speed. Tara stood in her doorway, holding the frame with one hand for support, Ethan on the other side of her, one arm about her waist, the other holding her arm solicitously.

"Tara?" she asked quietly. Her nurse didn't say anything, merely shuffled into the room with Ethan supporting her every step. Willow's face fell as she gazed anxiously at Tara, who looked weaker than Willow had ever seen her. Tara was looking directly at her, and her eyes were asking a question, and Willow could see that Tara was scared of Willow's answer, fearing rejection.

No rejection, only elation. Of course the answer was yes, and still they needed no words. As Tara approached, weary and fainting, Willow scooted over on her bed and lifted the sheets and blanket. She had no eyes for Ethan's disapproval, she only had eyes for Tara. Tara, who had come back for her. Tara didn't leave her after all. She was simultaneously overjoyed to see her nurse and horrified at Tara's condition. Tara sat down carefully on the edge of Willow's bed, then slowly popped off her shoes. Turning to look at Willow carefully, Tara then deliberately turned her back on Willow and, tucking in her feet first, she lay down on her side, her back to Willow's front.

Willow immediately cast the sheet and blanket over them both, then looked anxiously at Dr. Daniels. No matter how jubilant this made her feel, Willow knew that this wasn't normal hospital policy, and she knew Dr. Daniels was seething in unease. To her complete amazement, it seemed that Tara fell asleep the moment her head hit the thin hospital issue pillow. She looked at the brown hair cascading over the pillow and felt a shocking surge of protectiveness overcome her. She felt just like a lioness protecting her cub, and felt that she would take on the whole world to keep her cub safe.

And even though Dr. Daniels was clearly uncomfortable here, he lingered a moment. "What happened?" Willow finally asked, trying to puzzle out the myriad of emotions on his face.

"She fainted again," he replied shortly, with a measure of animosity that confused Willow. Willow looked down at her nurse again, her soul amplifying in concern. Her head shot back as she heard his next comment, "It's your fault, you know."

"My fault?" Willow stammered.

"It's Caleb," Ethan said, and Willow felt a momentary flash of exasperation. Did the whole world know about her secrets? But then she was far too involved and ashamed by his words to worry any longer. "This only started happening after she took Caleb out of your mind."

He was angry. Willow could understand that. He loved her. She was just about to open her mouth, to try to explain, when he continued. "I know there was nothing you could do, you were in a coma. You couldn't have stopped her. I could have. But I didn't. So it's my fault, really."

"Dr. Daniels, please," Willow pleaded.

"You better treat her right," he warned, his voice breaking.

With Tara lying next to her for the first time, with the perfectness of Tara's limbs against her own, with her small breasts pressed next to Tara's back, feeling every breath her nurse took, Willow shone with resolve. "Dr. Daniels," Willow said quietly. "I will save her."

And maybe he understood, for he deflated a little, and left their room, drawing the white curtain as he left, yet leaving the door to their room open, the dim hall light providing soft illumination.

Leaving Willow alone with Tara.

Willow burned with questions, with concern, but she shunted all this to the back of her mind. One step at a time. She needed more information before she could come up with a plan, but she certainly wasn't getting information while Tara was asleep, so she might as well forget about it and enjoy the moment.

So she very gently pulled out Tara's ponytail, so she would be more comfortable while she slept, and combed her hair out with her fingers. Willow loved the feeling of that chocolate hair running through her hands. Her heart pounding fiercely, Willow debated whether or not to get closer to her; when Tara had climbed into her bed Willow had given her plenty of space, leaving herself but a little. She couldn't hardly sleep in such a tiny space, right? Hoping and praying that Tara wouldn't be offended, that this is exactly what her nurse wanted, Willow curled up behind Tara, spooning deliciously behind her back and legs, feeling a screech of pain along her own semi-mangled limbs.

What a pair we make.

Willow wasn't sure if she could sleep next to Tara, for her heart was pounding fiercely, and she felt desire pooling along her limbs and between her legs. But eventually her eyes grew heavy and her limbs delightfully thick with encroaching sleep, and before dropping off she laid her hand across Tara's waist, pulling her in tight, and nuzzled her chin against Tara's shoulder.

It was late and the moon was high when she woke next, and she fluttered in confusion for a moment, not really remembering where she was. But then Willow felt the tremors running through the body of the woman lying next to her, and she heard Tara's little yelps and murmurs of distress. Not stopping to think about what she was doing, Willow rubbed her hand across Tara's stomach and whispered in her ear, "Ssh, Tara, it's just a nightmare, ssh, it's all right." Her hand continued to make comforting little circles on Tara's abdomen and she could feel the girl start to relax again under her hand.

Willow wasn't sure if Tara was entirely asleep, as Tara firmly entwined her fingers with Willow's, resting them both against the flat plane of her stomach. But her nurse began breathing slowly and deeply once more, clutching tightly to Willow's hand. Feeling sleep overcome her once again, Willow marveled briefly on the remarkable sensation of entwining her fingers with Tara's, of having them rest on her body, and then she too fell asleep.

She next came awake when she heard the familiar rattling of the blood pressure cart. She blearily opened her eyes to see John hovering over her. She lifted her arm from Tara's stomach and he wordlessly placed the cuff around it, then popped the thermometer into her ear. Willow wasn't sure if she wanted to look at him, afraid that his face would be a dissertation in disapproval, but he kept it remarkably clear. Not a word was spoken as he finished, writing down the vitals on her chart, and she heard him pull away with the cart down the hall to the next patient.

Willow glanced down at her watch. It was starting to get light outside, but it was still before seven o'clock. Insanely glad that she had made enough progress yesterday, Willow reluctantly pulled away from the sleeping form and slowly hobbled to the bathroom. While there she looked closely at herself in the mirror, a little astonished at the grave woman who looked back at her. She almost didn't recognize this Willow, this Willow with the scars on her face, with a depth to her eyes that never existed before. Her pupils were the black holes of her memory, and she stared at herself as if to call the memories back by force. Some romantic within her yearned for a fairy-tale kiss from Tara, a kiss that would recall all memories back to her and finally shed light on the coma. The practical scientist within her warred with the witch who believed in fairy tales and ghost stories and things that go bump in the night. Willow combed her hair, and brushed her teeth, and then tottered back to the bed, climbing carefully in next to her nurse.

For a while she attempted to fall back asleep, but it was hopeless. So she gladly turned her attention to the sleeping form in her arms. As she lay next to Tara, Willow supposed that it was the best feeling she had ever experienced. It felt like her heart was continually expanding in her chest, her stomach was all achy with joy, and she scarcely felt able to breathe. And all Tara was doing was lying there.

The drapes were still open, so the glow from the rising sun crept easily into Willow's room, painting them both with a soft glow. As Willow had climbed into bed, Tara had shifted slightly in her sleep and had fallen more on her back, overlapping Willow's front. Willow made sure that Tara's eyes were closed and her breathing regular before unabashedly staring down Tara's body. Her chest rose and fell with each steady breath, and Willow gently replaced her hand on Tara's midsection so she could feel her girl breathe. The only thing that marred the sight of Tara's breathing was the Amulet of Thespia, which had fallen heavily to Tara's side.

The Amulet. Willow sighed, and with her other hand she stroked Tara's hair. She desperately hoped that Tara would tell her the story, the whole story, and finally reveal why she felt so familiar, why she felt so good.

Willow gazed on Tara's face. Her eyelashes were long and dark, and despite sleeping for nearly twelve hours there were still dark spots under her eyes. The black eye was almost gone; it had reached that sickly yellow stage of healing and Willow wondered if the demon had done that, too. Seemed a little odd for a demon to do, but Willow had no other explanation. Unless someone hit Tara. The very idea made Willow's blood boil. The three long slashes that ran from Tara's eye to her ear and down to her jaw were very thin now and completely scabbed over. Willow wished, oh she wished she could just heal her, and though she had already tried a few times, she attempted to heal her again.

Concentrating deeply, Willow called upon the powers of the universe, and summoned the energies of earth. Like obedient little armies, they came to her beck and call, regimented themselves at the edge of her fingertips, but when she attempted to ply them on Tara's face, they recoiled against the great adamant wall. Willow pushed a little harder, but still there was nothing.

Severing her link, Willow fell back against her pillow, discontented. She wasn't used to being thwarted in her plans. She was Willow Rosenberg, for crying out loud. She always came up with a way to circumvent things. But once again, her plight came down to a lack of knowledge. She meant what she said to Dr. Daniels. She would save Tara. She would do anything for Tara. But she needed to know everything in order to do it. With the Scooby Gang, that always meant tons of research at the Magic Box. Her research this time would not come from any book. All the mystery lay locked in this precious woman's mind, and Willow had to find a way to draw it out.

Watching Tara as the minutes passed, Willow became aware that Tara was slowly waking up. Her girl began shifting a little, her breathing grew irregular, but her eyes didn't open yet. Willow was pierced with desire, wanting to show Tara what she meant to her, what Willow had finally started to figure out. A vague part of her wondered if Tara had ever loved another woman; she still knew so little about the woman who had captured her heart. Willow was candid enough with herself to know that it simply didn't matter. All that mattered was the body lying against hers, the warm of her limbs, the exquisite feeling of joyous pain in her gut.

Her heart pounding in trepidation and excitement, Willow began to rub little circles on the fabric on Tara's stomach, waiting for some sign that this was what Tara wanted. If Tara had stiffened, had drawn away, Willow would have stopped in an instant. Instead, Tara mumbled something, and pushed her butt back against Willow's legs. The friction of the fabric on Willow's fingers sent slight electric currents through her whole body.

I'm hot.

Willow did this for a few minutes, her hands swooping all along the plane of Tara's stomach, then her fumbling fingers found the hem of Tara's shirt. Holding her breath, Willow dipped her fingers under Tara's shirt and touched Tara's bare skin.

Willow paused there a moment, waiting for a green light from Tara. The way Tara drew in a sharp breath was signal enough. Tingling in anticipation, she ran her hand over the smooth expanse of Tara's warm skin, trailing all the way down to her far side and then back again in long, slow passes. Tara's breathing became a little more irregular yet, so Willow continued her slow assault, alternating using the heel of her hand to gently massage Tara's stomach, and her fingers to lightly tickle. Willow almost grew embarrassed; her nipples had hardened into sharp little nubs and were still firmly pressed to Tara's back. She wondered if Tara could feel them.

She kept up her deliberate assault, and on her next pass over Tara's stomach she drew lower, passing near the drawstring waist of Tara's scrubs. Emboldened, she used a feathery touch to trace the line of her pants, then a harder touch as she worked her way back down Tara's stomach. Gods, she was getting wet herself, pressure building relentlessly, thick like honey in her veins. Lifting her hand almost completely off, she heard a little grumble from Tara, but she swiftly returned her palm to the lower expanses of Tara's abdomen.

Here Willow paused for a moment. It was very obvious that Tara was enjoying this treatment with her continual murmurs and the nearly imperceptible thrusting of her hips, but Willow wanted to give her more. Willow wanted to give her everything. Making up her mind, Willow continued her long slow probing of Tara's stomach, always skirting the drawstring waist of her pants. Taking a deep breath, this time as she ran her fingers along the edge of Tara's pants, she paused at the far end, then slid her fingers under her drawstring waist and the elastic edge of her panties.

Willow could have sworn that Tara was holding her breath. Smiling in delight, grateful that she could do this much at least for her battered nurse, Willow drew her fingers back towards her, just under the waistband, circling Tara's bellybutton. Once, twice she ran her fingers around the vortex of Tara's bellybutton, then continued her steady advance to Tara's side. She repeated this motion half a dozen times, slow and torturous pullings of her fingers over the lower expanses of Tara's abdomen, rubbing her bellybutton again and again. Drawing her fingers out from under the waistband, she ran them up Tara's side, still under the fabric of her shirt, over Tara's bony ribcage, stopping just before the swell of Tara's breast.

Passion began to roar within her; she lifted her hand away, and could have sworn she heard a whispered, "Don't stop, please." Smiling mischievously, Willow placed her warm hand on Tara's hip, then ran it slowly along the line of Tara's body, dipping once again under Tara's shirt, caving in to the smallness of her waist, rising up along the edge of her ribcage, the fabric pulling under her hand as she continued higher, coming to the swell of Tara's bra-covered breasts. Willow gulped, and her hand ached to cup Tara's breasts; she had feasted her eyes on them ever since she woke, imagined them to be the softest globes of perfection imaginable, but this was still too new, and she didn't want to frighten her girl. Smiling in barely contained anticipation, she ran her hand along the lower edge of the bra until she encountered tape and gauze.

Her hand froze.

How could she have forgotten?

Scalpels in lamplight. Demon carved chest. Willow had come away with only mental scars, but Tara's were physical. Once again Willow was awash in grief. What this girl had done for her, the horrors she had experienced, the pains that wracked her body even now, Willow could only glimpse the edges of the idea and it still haunted her. Her chest tightened in despair, and she convulsively wrapped Tara even more tightly in her arms, pulling at her in wrought desperation until every portion of her front was touching Tara.

 _(If I lose you, my heart will be broken.)_

Willow nuzzled her chin to Tara's shoulder, shuddering. She tried to keep from crying, she was crying at the drop of a hat these days, but the exquisite feeling of Tara in her arms, the knowledge that Tara was hurt because of her, and her aching inability to do anything about it, it all festered in her mind and she found she just had to weep. She lifted one hand to brush Tara's hair out of her way, then returned that hand to the bare skin of Tara's stomach.

Willow felt her tears strike the bare skin of Tara's neck and without thinking she turned her head and sucked the tears away. It was the first time her lips came in contact with Tara's skin, and her body's response was electrifying. The slow torture earlier, the pressure that had been continually building, it was nothing compared to the near electric jolt that overcame her now. Tara's neck was so soft, so addictive, and Willow kissed it again and again, long and slow kisses that nearly made her swoon. She discovered with some delight the pulse point in Tara's neck and she laved special attention on it.

Tara was clearly awake. With a slow movement, she deliberately insinuated her foot between Willow's feet, entangling their calves. The movement hurt Willow's riddled legs a little, but she found she simply didn't care; the feeling of having Tara between her legs was too exquisite to pass up. Tara's hands moved to rest on top of Willow's, merging their fingers. As Willow realized that Tara was fully awake, she ceased her kissing, and nuzzled her chin once again into Tara's shoulder. "That was the best wake up I've ever had," Tara said softly, and Willow squeezed her fingers in reply.

"Tara, I'm so sorry," Willow gulped, her throat thick, her eyes shut against the pricklings of tears.

Tara shifted; letting go of Willow's hands briefly so she could turn herself on her other side, to face Willow, she snuggled back into Willow's embrace, firmly placing Willow's hand on the skin of her waist. Willow opened her tear-prismed eyes to see Tara looking directly at her, Tara softly asking, "What is there to be sorry for?"

Willow looked down at Tara's breasts, and her hand underneath Tara's shirt skirted the soul-engulfing expanse of her stomach to briefly touch the gauze and tape that covered her breasts. She couldn't speak past the lump in her throat, could only look back at Tara, Tara with the black eye, Tara with the carved face. Willow swallowed, several times, and still couldn't find the right words. Another tear sluicing down her cheek, Willow closed her eyes and pulled Tara closer to her, her arm encircling Tara's waist, Tara's head on her shoulder, Tara's hand wrapping around her back. She squirreled her other arm under Tara's body, wrapping it around her back, and with trembling fingers she began to rub Tara's shoulder.

Yet despite her grief, Willow could only exult in the remarkable sensation. For the first time, she and her nurse lay face to face, breast to breast, heart to heart, and the small part of Willow's mind that was still functioning wryly surmised that she could stay thus forever. She could feel the warmth of Tara's breath through the thin hospital robe she wore, after the shift in position Tara's foot had replaced itself between Willow's legs, and Tara's own hand was resting comfortably on Willow's side. Willow wished that she could feel Tara's hand on her own bare skin, but the hospital robe was too confining. Oh, well. It will come with time.

Minutes passed in this silence, this hush that so echoed the magic of yesterday. Willow calmed herself, and when she believed she could speak again she softly asked, "Tara?"

"Mmm?" Tara murmured, and Willow could feel the vibration against her breasts as Tara stayed nestled near her neck.

"Please tell me?"

Tara didn't speak for a long time, and Willow almost held her breath in anticipation. The need to know was burning her up inside, and her promise to Dr. Daniels echoed within her. It had taken a few days to build on Tara's trust, to prove how committed she was to Tara, to convince her to finally lay down the burden of hoarding all that terrible knowledge. Now, with her nurse in her arms, Willow believed Tara was finally ready to tell the truth, and all of it.

And when it seemed that Tara needed just one little prod more, the careful and experienced inquisitor that was Willow said something that she didn't understand yet had popped into her mind with resonating force.

"I am close, Tara."

Tara lifted her eyes, and gazed on Willow in frank admiration. She was the paladin of Willow's soul. She was the wave on Willow's sea. She was the composer, the butterfly, the angel.

Willow was breathless.

"And I am the lamb," Tara softly replied.


	29. God is in the Why

Chapter Twenty Nine

God is in the Why

"I will tell you everything, Willow, right now. But do you mind if I freshen up first?" Tara asked. She was supremely comfortable, her nerves afire with delight, but her bladder was quite full and insistent. Willow let her go but slowly, drawing her fingers over Tara as Tara slowly got up. Tara sat on the edge of the hospital bed and looked down at her love; Willow was blushing a little and looked incredibly sexy lying on her side, her nipples poking through the thin hospital robe. Tara was expecting great screechings of pain from her battered body, but she felt remarkably well rested, the pain within her bare murmurs compared to the hideous yowls of yesterday. If all it took was sleeping in Willow's arms, the intoxication of Willow's touch to banish her pain, then Tara knew where she would be every night for the rest of her life.

She walked carefully to the bathroom, used the facility, then washed her hands and face. Drying herself with a towel, Tara looked in the mirror. She chuckled; she was sparkling this morning. Radiant. Even this most mundane of mirrors showed it. Tara had a slight wish that she was in the privacy of her home, so that she could take care of her most aching need; Willow's caresses had ignited her, she was awash in desire and the unfulfillment of that desire was driving her mad.

Tara straightened her clothes, running her hand over her bellybutton with a faint smile, then she returned to Willow's bedside. Always the emerald eyes of her girl followed her, just as they had yesterday. First she drew the curtains; the sun would soon be blazing with glory into this most hallowed space and once in bed again with Willow, she didn't want to leave. Ever. Willow was patting the bed again and Tara almost shyly returned to her side. Climbing in, facing Willow, she felt Willow draw the sheet and blanket over them again. Then Willow spread her legs and hooked her ankle over Tara's pant leg, drawing Tara's leg between hers again, shuffling a bit closer to her. There was a slight gape of pain on her face as she did so, and Tara said, "I don't want to hurt you."

"Nonsense," Willow replied. They now faced each other on the thin hospital pillow, eye to eye, their fingers as tangled as their legs. Willow waited, and Tara knew what she was waiting for.

Everything, Tara.

"I guess it starts with my patient, Peter Whitney," Tara began softly. As she thought of the day that Peter Whitney died, how he had thanked her in his mind-garden, Tara realized that it all started much much before that. "Actually, no," she corrected. "This whole story has to do with what I am, and what I can do.

"I told you earlier that I am a healer." Tara paused, searching for some way to explain her special gift, and was surprised when Willow spoke.

"Althanea told me a little about your gifts," she said. "She said that you can take pain, absorb it into your own body, and that you also send your own cells into the person that you are healing. You take it both ways, Tara, don't you?"

Tara nodded. "My family has always served the goddess Aranaea, and we are one of the few who have had access to her throughout her age-long exile. The gifts of Aranaea are psionic gifts, the gifts of the mind, and we have been blessed with many of them, including healing by sacrifice."

"Is there any other kind of healing?" Willow wondered.

"I think so," Tara replied pensively. "I have heard of some witches who are supplicants of Panacea, and she has the pure healing magic that requires no sacrifice at all, nor the use of the element of Earth that you've learned to use. Sometimes I wonder why our magic comes from Aranaea instead of Panacea, but then I'm just glad I have any power at all."

Willow was rubbing her thumb over Tara's hand, and Tara smiled, then grew wistful. "The day Peter Whitney died I was able to go in to his mind and meet with him there." As Willow's eyes widened in amazement, Tara explained, "My mother called it mindsurfing. By having my fingers touch someone, I can seep into their consciousness and enter their mind." Willow looked intrigued, so Tara chuckled and said, "I can show you later if you like."

"Sure," Willow said. "Go on?"

"I know exactly how sick someone is by creating a tree for them in my own mind, then taking that tree into theirs. How fast the tree sickens, the leaves falling off and dying, is how close to death that person is. When I last saw Peter, he had only three leaves left." Tara's voice trailed off in memory of that innocent and gentle man, the joy he had given her, the contentment she felt in his company. She was a little astonished by how much her life had changed since that day. "I was able to say goodbye," Tara continued, "and then I got out and called his family in time. They were there as he died."

"How many patients have you lost?" Willow asked softly.

"Three," Tara said, remembering them in her mind. Poor young Chris, he was a mere child, and then Cynthia, and finally Peter.

"That afternoon I went home, and I had a message from my brother Donny that he was bringing me a rabbit." Tara saw Willow's eyes widen as she said rabbit, and realized that Willow probably didn't know yet how Tara's family dealt with the pain they leeched from those they healed. "I'll explain soon, sweetie," Tara promised. She took another breath, and continued, "I took a nap, and that's when I dreamt of you for the first time."

Willow looked entranced, and Tara remembered the dream she had only yesterday morning after her night of agony, when goddess-Willow had come to her yet again. "We were at UC Sunnydale, where I had applied and been accepted, but I chose instead to go to San Francisco. You were holding the scythe, and you asked me what part I would play.

"And you know how it is in dreams. Some things you just know. And I knew this, even though I'd never read the script or seen the ending. I knew my part to play, the part I was born to play." Tara looked closely at Willow, and repeated what she had said minutes earlier, "I am the lamb."

Willow opened her mouth, but closed it again. Tara could tell that Willow was teeming with questions, and she was so adorable in trying to keep from overwhelming Tara with them that Tara chuckled. "Do you want to ask me something, Willow?" she teased.

"No, I don't want to interrupt," Willow said staunchly. She firmly closed her mouth then, but her green eyes twinkled in devilry.

Tara's heart softened even more. This was coming out easier than she thought. It hurt, but it was a good hurt, like pulling out a festering splinter. "I didn't know who you were, of course, just that you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen." Willow smiled and squeezed Tara's fingers. "And your hair was white, in my dream."

Willow mouthed the word, "White," and Tara waited. Willow finally continued, saying, "When I used the scythe to activate the potential Slayers, my hair turned white, and I think it stayed white even as I hunted down the Bringers." She looked at the red strands of her hair. "When did it turn back?"

Tara smiled. "You're getting ahead of yourself." Willow snuggled into Tara, and made to lay her head on Tara's chest when she suddenly recoiled. Tara quickly assured her, "It's all right, Willow, please lay on me softly." _(Please, oh, please be on me and in me and through me and save me)_ Willow must have seen her unspoken plea, for she carefully laid her head on Tara's chest, wrapping her arm around Tara's waist. After allowing herself a moment to calm down again _(Willow, you have no idea what your touch does to me...)_ she continued with her story.

"After I woke, Donny was downstairs with the rabbit. He wanted me to come home for a visit, especially since I had a mandatory week off after Peter had died, but I didn't want to go." Not wanting to delve into those reasons, Tara plowed on, "We use the animals to rid ourselves of the pain we take. My mother had drummed it into me from a very young age. She always told me, 'If you're going to take it, you're going to give it away'. I usually used rabbits because they were larger than mice and could take more of the pain I needed to give away, yet they weren't as intelligent as a cat or a dog. I felt guilty in using them, I always did and I always will, but I understood what their purpose was.

"So I used the rabbit, and fed the cancer pain that I had taken from Mr. Whitney into it, and when the rabbit was dead, I felt much better." Tara was almost glad she couldn't see Willow's face now, Willow's face that was pillowed so comfortingly against her chest. She didn't want to see a possible look of consternation, a look of disapproval.

"Ethan, well, Dr. Daniels, he called me back to the hospice that very night, and handed me a file. Your file. He told me that you were the only survivor of the Sunnydale implosion, and that an anonymous British man had specially requested me to be your nurse. They apparently offered the hospice a great deal of money, since Ethan decided to have me take your file, and cancel my mandatory week off."

Running her hand through Willow's hair and down her back, Tara continued in a near whisper. "A-and then I saw your picture, Willow, and I just about broke down. It was undeniably the same woman from my dream, and I remember thinking to myself that this kind of thing just wasn't possible. Not for me."

Willow squeezed her lightly in response, and Tara went on. "You arrived the next morning, and I deliberately brought you into the same room that Peter Whitney had stayed in. There was a lot of love in this space, and I knew I needed a lot of help in healing you.

"You were so beat up, Willow." Her voice broke, and Willow raised her head from her Tara-pillow to look at her softly. Willow lifted her hand to touch Tara's face, and Tara cupped that hand in her own, closed her eyes and melted into the touch. When she opened her eyes again, she was almost astonished by the heat in Willow's gaze, and Tara realized that Willow wasn't staring at her eyes anymore. Willow was staring unabashedly at her lips, and Tara's hand fell off of Willow's as Willow's fingers trailed softly down her demon-ravaged face, lightly touching her lips.

Kiss me, Willow. Please.

But Willow only looked at her, and Tara finally continued. "I don't want to bore you with the details," she began, but Willow swiftly interrupted her.

"Tara," she said firmly. "Bore me with the details."

"I never wanted you to know," Tara choked.

"And I think I understand why," Willow replied, still looking firmly at her. Willow's hand had returned to its home on Tara's waist. "You knew I would feel in debt to you, yet you want me to be free to live my own life. You didn't want to shackle me with concern for you, you wanted to trivialize it, and pretend that anyone would have done the same."

Once again Willow astounded Tara with the sheer level of her insight. Even Tara had never put her tempestuous feelings into such order. But as Willow explained, it made perfect sense to her, and she knew that those were the exact reasons why she wanted to keep silent.

"On some level, you didn't want me to get it," Willow relentlessly continued. "You didn't want me to fully understand your sacrifice. If I understood too much, I might have fallen in love with you. There would have been joy, Tara."

Tara started to weep.

"But joy, peace, happiness, these are things alien to you, aren't they baby?" Willow whispered. "You needed the familiar, the mundane, the pain even. You needed the darkness, you needed to be the one left behind. You needed to be the martyr." Willow lifted her hand again to touch the tears on Tara's cheek, rubbing them softly away. "You lived your life in shadows, never the sun on your face," Willow whispered.

Tara closed her eyes and sobbed. Willow allowed it for a while, then insisted, "Tara, look at me." Opening her bleary eyes, Tara gazed at the woman she continually underestimated, the woman who had her heart and her soul. Her everything.

"The joy scares you. You never thought you deserved happiness. So you thought you'd feed me a story, and lessen my debt to you. But there is something going on here that you don't seem to understand."

Tara trembled and shook, her heart expanding in coruscating light, a fierce joy rising from deep in her middle. She could scarcely understand the words erupting from Willow's mouth; she was captivated by them, and the truth of them settled deep into the atoms of her body, rearranging her.

 _(Once you are empty, be careful of what you put back in.)_

Willow's gaze was soft and proud and triumphant. "I already understand too much."

Does she mean what I think she means? No, impossible.

 _(If I understood too much, I might have fallen in love with you.)_

"Tara, dearest Tara," Willow whispered. "You have sacrificed so much for me. You've put your life at risk for me. You took my pains and brought me out of my coma. You have served me so diligently, even after pain so great you've fainted. Maybe you think that anyone would have done the same, but that's simply not true. And I know it."

Willow lifted Tara's hand to her lips and gently kissed it, and her other hand tucked a strand of brown hair back behind Tara's ear, caressing her scalp. Then, holding Tara's hand in one hand, Tara's head with the other, Willow softly said, "I will find a way to save you, Tara Maclay."

And just like her earlier words, this phrase also rang with conviction, and it undid her. Tara began crying softly once more, but this time the tears were of joy, and the glorious future she had been shown began to come into focus. Perhaps it was possible for Willow to save her. Perhaps she even deserved to be saved.

Willow simply held her for a while, and Tara luxuriated in that feeling as she regained her composure. "Uh, what were we talking about?" she asked.

"Bore me with the details, baby," Willow said, resettling herself on Tara's chest, her arm coming strong around Tara's waist. Tara's eyes widened again at the 'baby', but she didn't want to call attention to it, so she simply rolled it around her mind a few more times before beginning her story again.

"There were gashes on your face, a laceration on your forehead. Your skull was broken, and your scalp was also lacerated. Your left lung had collapsed and you had several broken ribs. There was a vampire bite on your neck, a really bad one. A sword had pierced your lower right side through and through, and the gash across your abdomen was deeply infected. There was a horrific scrape over your right breast, also filled with pus and infected. Various cuts and scrapes on your shoulder blades, the cuts on your upper arms and scrapes on your knuckles." Tara took a breath, recalling those hours she spent when she first met Willow, cleaning the wounds, her heart aching over each and every one of them. "And then your legs, all riddled with deep cuts and scrapes."

"And you took it all," Willow responded in a voice of wonder. "Why, Tara?"

Tara heard the quiver in Willow's voice, the depth behind the innocent question. She recalled her feelings of that day, as she stood in the sunlit room and ached over Willow's wounds, determining that some good would yet come of it all. After all, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. Why do bad things happen to good people?

 _(God is in the why.)_

For a moment Tara was going to respond, but she just couldn't. Not yet. She hoped Willow would understand, and she continued with her narrative as if Willow hadn't just asked the most important question of all.

"After I had cleaned your wounds, I prepared to go into your mind and see if I could find you," Tara continued. "So I made a tree for you and brought it in." Tara paused a moment, reflecting on that instant she first encountered Willow's mind. The world as she had known it shattered. "Like I suspected, the tree wilted very badly, all the leaves blackened but they didn't fall from the tree. I noticed someone sitting on the ground underneath the tree and I tried to pretend it was you, but I knew it wasn't.

"It was the goddess Aranaea."

Willow drew back then, her eyes filled with wonder. "She answered my call?" Willow asked.

"It was her presence in your mind that turned your hair white," Tara explained. "She's a child-goddess you know, just a little girl. With your call, with your need, she had finally broken her exile. It was there, sitting under your hell-blasted tree that I first learned who you were, who your great enemy was, and how important it was for you to live." Tara touched Willow's face, then intoned the words that became her greatest assignment, "Save Willow, so Willow can save the world."

"Go me," Willow joked. Instead of laying again on Tara's chest, Willow faced her now and settled into the pillow, her eyes intent on every word shaped by Tara's comely mouth.

But Tara trembled to continue. "Take it slow," Willow advised, holding Tara's hand.

"Even then, I knew what I had to do," Tara said softly, looking carefully at Willow. "She told me to heal you, she didn't exactly say how, but she also told me that I would be her sacrifice to save the world. This time I would be the rabbit," and Willow's eyes widened in horror. "I would be the lamb."

Again Willow looked like she wanted to say something, but she obstinately kept her mouth shut. Tara was aching to continue, it would hurt more to stop now, so she said, "Aranaea had the scythe with her; it had been subsumed by you when you invoked its power," Tara recalled slowly. "And the preacher came."

"Caleb." Willow shuddered, and Tara wondered if Willow was remembering the streets, and the scalpel.

"Yes, Caleb. I put my fingers on the scythe and inhaled it, and its power came over me. When I returned to my senses, Aranaea had fled, and Caleb had arrived. I tried to get away, to return to the outside world, but he had somehow chained me. That had never happened before, my mother never told me that could happen, and I nearly panicked. He blasted portions of your tree, then he opened a window, and he showed me, he showed..." and Tara stopped.

"What did he show you?" Willow gently asked.

"You," Tara said, squeezing Willow's fingers. "You were crashing through the streets of Sunnydale, you were bleeding, and you were being hunted. He showed me only a glimpse of what he was doing to you in your mind while he held you hostage, and it nearly killed me." Tara took a deep breath, and continued. "I felt a pinprick, and then I finally came out. The hospital room was chaos. When Aranaea fled your mind, your hair returned to its normal colour. And when Caleb shattered branches of your tree, you went into cardiac arrest. And I didn't even know. I was still stuck in your mind, chained by Caleb.

"Ethan saved your life," Tara concluded. "He brought you back to life, and then gave me a shot of adrenaline which finally pulled me out of your mind." She noticed that Willow had a strange expression on her face when she said Ethan's name, and she wondered if Ethan had said anything to her girl last night. She didn't know; she had fallen asleep so quickly. After nearly no sleep the night before, hollowed by pain the whole of the day, Tara had been exhausted. "What is it, Willow?"

"He loves you, doesn't he?" Willow asked in a small voice, looking softly at her.

"He does," Tara agreed, blushing.

"You are very easy to love," Willow replied, staring once again at Tara's lips. Tara shivered with goosebumps, a flush of heat cascaded through her and her core began to pound with blood. Willow seemed unaware of Tara's reaction, so Tara swallowed and continued her story.

"I was distraught by what I saw in your mind, so Ethan drove me home. Once there, I received instruction from Aranaea, and she told me to tell Ethan everything. Everything about me, about being a witch and a healer, and everything about you. He's never been quite the same since."

"This world changes people," Willow said softly. "Not everyone can handle it."

"Angel said much the same thing," Tara replied. "Aranaea told me that Angel had the Amulet of Thespia, which I needed in order to pull Caleb out of you. At work that day I healed your gut wound, and it was kinda bad." Tara smiled wryly in remembrance of the Mardi Gras party her cells had been enjoying as they partied over to Willow's body, the subsequent agony she felt as she drove to L.A. to meet with Angel.

Willow looked searchingly at her, so Tara shrugged and went on. "I met with Angel in a cemetery and he gave me the Amulet after I told him what I needed it for. He was very excited to find out you were alive. It," and Tara looked away before looking back, shy, "i-it made me kind of jealous."

Willow smiled broadly and squeezed Tara's hand. "It was just after he gave me the Amulet that we were attacked by three demons. Angel turned into a vampire, which he neglected to tell me that he was, and I ran for my life. One of them caught up to me, though, and after slashing me I turned my magic inside out on it, and fed all your pain into it, and set it on fire, and killed it." Her voice got lower and lower.

"So that's what they meant by demon," Willow wondered aloud.

"What?" Tara asked.

Willow blushed, and said, "Never mind. Then what happened?"

Tara looked at Willow for just a moment, then said, "I woke up in an L.A. hospital. It was midday on Saturday. My wounds were pretty bad, and the nurse told me that they had called Donny. He was... upset when he came. He's always having to rescue me." Tara looked chagrined. "He brought me another magic lesson, one that my mom said I wasn't ready for when she died. He taught me that I could heal myself of my own injuries by sucking the life force from another human."

Tara shifted a bit, her arm falling asleep under her. "So I used Donny," she continued in a near whisper. "And I got out of control, and I took too much from him for my face, but it barely helped my chest. He was angry, Willow, so he hit me."

Willow's eyes grew hard; Tara believed she could cut through sheet metal with them. Willow disentangled her fingers from Tara long enough to touch her face. "The black eye," Willow said.

"Yes," Tara replied, "but I don't blame him. He left me, giving me a letter from my mother before he did. After I read it, I was angry. My mother and Aranaea had conspired to give me the most horrible life imaginable, just to give me enough depth to heal you." Willow's eyes were gleaming with unshed tears. "At that moment, Willow, I didn't want to heal you anymore," Tara admitted sadly. "I just wanted a normal life, and believed I couldn't have one with you. I threw myself a pity party, got mad at Aranaea, and then I finally drove back here to the hospice, just as the sun was rising the next day.

"And all I had to do was look at you once more before I wanted to save you again. That I would do whatever it took to save you." Willow sobbed a little, and Tara held her close, stroking her hair and her back.

"So the next day Ethan helped me prepare the spell that would transfer Caleb from your mind into my own." Tara suddenly stopped in her narrative as the woman with the breakfast tray came into Willow's room. Tara recognized her, of course, and wondered what the woman was thinking as she put the tray down, her mouth in a thin line of disapproval. Tara was pleasantly surprised to find out she simply didn't care what the woman thought. The woman left without saying a word, leaving Tara alone again with her love.

"Go on," Willow urged.

"I called upon the power of three goddesses for this task," Tara continued. "Aranaea would provide me with the physical strength to overcome Caleb. Thespia would provide the power to bind him, and Maia would protect my heart from invasion. So I entered your mind, and Caleb came, and I fought him, and struck him down with the scythe, and then inhaled him into my own body." There came a sharp stab of pain in her temple when she said this, and Tara winced.

"What is it?" Willow asked.

"He's a little ticked off," Tara said wryly.

"You can feel him?"

"Oh yes," Tara breathed. "With the amulet on, he cannot get free, but that doesn't stop him from being an unwelcome houseguest."

Willow was looking at Tara in wonder. "You did all this for me," she said softly, touching Tara's cheek once again. After a moment, she asked, "Then what happened?"

"The wall of your prison had burst with his death, and I found you by a tree in a Sunnydale park, and I held you for the first time." Willow's face constricted, as if she was trying to force the memory to return. Tara looked at her girl, noticing how the sun was rising higher and higher, suffusing her cheeks with its evanescent light. "Willow, you should eat your breakfast before it gets entirely cold," Tara said, turning into nurse mode.

"But I'm so comfy," Willow complained, burrowing softly once again into Tara's chest. Tara tapped her on the shoulder, and Willow looked up.

"I'm your nurse, I command you to eat," she said, waggling her finger.

"But what are you going to eat?" Willow countered, her face triumphant. "You need to eat, too, you are way too thin."

"I'll run to the cafeteria for a bagel and come right back, I promise," Tara said, trying to ease out of Willow's grip.

Willow had locked on to her tight, though. Tara laughed then, and decided not to fight it. Instead, she hugged Willow, and held on to her for a pleasantly long minute or two. Willow finally lifted her face again, and her proximity to Tara was making her senses whirl. Her hands still tight across Tara's waist, Willow's face hovered mere inches from Tara's own.

Tara's heart began to beat a crazy dance of delight.

Willow's face was thoughtful, pensive, and she softly bit her lower lip. "What is it, darling?" Tara asked.

"Just why did you do all this for me, Tara?" Willow whispered. Tara reigned in her desire to sink into Willow's mind and read just exactly what was going on in there. Part of Willow looked unworthy, and crushed, and desperate to find why Tara did what she did. The little Tara knew of Willow's previous romantic relationships, Tara thought she might be able to understand Willow's motivation in asking such a loaded question.

Could Tara answer truthfully this time? She had ignored Willow's first plea, she couldn't do it again. But the real reason

 _(Because I fell in love with you the moment I saw you, because my need of you overwhelms me, because my life is empty without you, because it's you, Willow, it's always been you...)_

Willow had insinuated her love, but she hadn't said it yet. What would happen if Tara said those fateful words first?

And Tara found that she just couldn't. Not yet. She needed to hear it from Willow first.

So she imparted the wisdom that Willow had helped her discover. "Willow, God is in the why."

And Tara swore that Willow saw right through her desperate subterfuge. For Willow's face, inches from her own, constricted in great emotion. Then her fingers, those exquisite and teasing fingers, cupped the back of Tara's neck, tilting up her chin. It was a hot and naked gaze that latched on to Tara's lips, and then those chapped lips found hers, after so long she found her again, and Tara melted into them, just as she had before.


	30. Gifts

Chapter Thirty

Gifts

And once again the gods granted an exquisite gift, and Willow was captured by time. The moment slowed and drew thin, and each second was a thousand years of pleasure. It was only a moment, a single moment that Willow pressed her lips against Tara's for the first time. She was acutely aware of her hard nipples thrusting against Tara's breasts, of Tara's hands on her back, in her hair. The softness of Tara's lips unnerved her, and for that moment she merely pressed her own chapped lips against the perfection that was Tara. Her world was narrowing to this sharp point, this focus, and in this moment, Willow somehow realized that nothing would ever be the same.

 _(Because there was a demon, and he carved my Tara like a Christmas goose, and there was a goddess who allowed her to suffer, and there was a brother who hit her and humiliated her, and then there was me_

and my lacerations, and my rips and my tears, my bites and my scrapes

and the man who caused it all, the long preacher, the dark hand, the silent might, and she took him, into her own mind she took him and now he tortures her

oh, god, Tara!)

Willow convulsed in the thought, and pressed herself even tighter to Tara, as if by the force of her love she could possess her utterly, and subsume Tara as she had subsumed Caleb, and take the weight of Tara's world on her. Then she could save her, she could unravel all mysteries, she could finally find out why

 _(God is in the why)_

she always had to save the world, and why the gods chose this precious woman to be the ultimate sacrifice, and what was Willow supposed to do now other than finally let every ounce of love burst forth from her, love strong enough to overcome any obstacle, love strong enough to open any lock, love in the form of lips that thrust and teased and reared and

 _(Oh!)_

Because they weren't just lips, they were keys to a lock, hidden deep in Willow's mind. The lock protected a secret, a memory, and the longer Willow drank from Tara's lips, the more that key turned in the lock, hovering just above completion. Then that first second passed, and the next one came, delicious in its soft intensity. And Willow ran her tongue over her lips, and over Tara's lips, thrusting lightly as if to enter. There was no more hospital room, no more worry of disapproval or shame, there was only this kiss, this connection between two tortured souls.

 _(I will save you)_

Tara opened her mouth, and Willow tilted her lips and captured her, and her hands pulled relentlessly at Tara's neck, seeking to engulf her. Four seconds. Desire was crashing through her, waves upon waves of purple passion, cascading up her throat, choking her with sweetness, melting her in the fiery abyss of Tara's devotion. Six seconds. Lips moving now, feasting, delighting

 _(saving!)_

and Willow felt the familiarity, and could see the lock and key in her mind. Another thrust with her tongue, and Tara's fingers dipped underneath Willow's robe in the back, touching her bare skin, splaying her fingers wide, electrifying her. Ten seconds.

A peculiar whoosh swept through Willow's body, terrifying yet familiar, and she instinctively clutched harder at Tara's body, some part of her aware that Tara's hips were grinding against her hers, her lips yet glued to Tara's, still feasting, still delighting, still saving.

And the key turned in the lock, and the secret burst open, and the final wall between Willow and her memories dissolved to reveal  
 _  
not just the brotherly love you'd expect from an angel, but all-reaching, soul-shattering, body-wrenching romantic love that you hope for your entire life and never experience and it only hints of a power far beyond anything mortals should ever experience..._

and desperately I clutched at the angel's body, for I had never been held like this, no not ever, no one ever held me with such fierce devotion, with such waves and waves of love...

"Am I going to forget you?"...

and I began to move my lips, first softly, almost teasing, skirting the open infinite expanse of the angel's mouth simultaneously terrified and delighted at the universe within...

and I used my hand behind the angel's neck to tilt it upwards, and I planted slow, soft kisses down the angel's jaw line, down the smooth expanse of her creamy throat, feeling relentless pressure building between my legs...

and I stood then, with the ghostly wind whipping my crimson hair, my eyes closed against the onslaught of voices in the wind, my heart burning in torment, the gleaming handle of my gateway to consciousness fastened shut, and only the thought of bellflower eyes grounded me...

and the thought of facing those damned streets filled me with despair, for they were mangled, and strewn about with little lost teddy bears, with the gallons of my blood shed as I was reaved and reaved by the same man who now tortures my most precious girl...

and as I walked I was lit with the light of Tara's healing love, and my very footprints quivered, and sent forth rays of healing energy, and the streets righted themselves, and the buildings were erected anew, and I only knew that I would have been desolate without...

Xander, "Why do you always have to be the selfish one? Why couldn't you just run away, and give me a place to come home to? Anyplace you were was home to me"...

And Buffy, "Why do you always wear impractical shoes to battles, Buffy? We were supposed to grow old together and forget to take our pills and cheat at bingo"...

She came back for me, the angel came back, and her voice was silken, "If you wish it, I'll never leave you again"...

Her name is Tara...

and just there under the tree, I burrowed between Tara's legs, leaning back against Tara's bosom, finally contented, my head coming to rest just under Tara's shoulder, sighing as Tara's arms came around me, Tara gasping (why, Tara, why?)...

"They are all dead, Willow, all except for Faith" (she's in Romania, Willow)...

"I saved the world, Tara, but not for me. Never for me"...

and I felt the rumbling of passion deep inside me, as the walls of my sexually repressed prison weakened under the tender thrusting of Tara's tongue; Tara's tantalizing fingers remained cupped on my face, using them to lift me ever higher, higher, her lips engulfing my mouth, tilting, shifting, sharing, possessing...

"Tara, I don't even know you, but I do know this. I could not bear the thought of the world without you. I would weather the apocalypse for you. I would go to the ends of the earth to save you. Tara Maclay, I don't even know you, but I love you"...

and I left breadcrumbs...

and I buried the Scoobies...

and I wondered "Why, Tara? Why do you love me?"...

(god is in the why, Willow, and so am I.)

The whooshing settled, but Willow did not care. The great mental curtain had finally come down, and she saw and remembered everything, and the debt she felt within her could never be repaid but by the gods was she ever going to try. Feeling Tara's lips still fastened securely to her own; they were somehow standing now, the hospital bed and the room quite gone, but she didn't care where she was, all she cared about was Tara and her lips, her body

 _(her soul)_

and Willow's hands cupped Tara's face by her ears, and she lifted her mouth again and again, almost drowning Tara with the tears that continually flowed from her aching closed eyes. Kiss after kiss on her lips, her cheek, her jaw line, her throat, dizzy in the memories that assaulted her

 _(ambushed by ghosts)_

and her only lifeline was Tara.

Better. Faster.

Willow used her fingers to tilt up Tara's head, and she ran her tongue into the hollow of Tara's throat, hearing a guttural moan rip from deep within her lover. She opened her eyes lightly then, just to get her bearings, but scarcely noticed the two of them standing in a fog-encrusted world of no substance except shadow.

 _(My mother called it mindsurfing)_

Her heart pounding, her breath short and quick, Willow whispered, "Oh, my Tara, my baby," before wrapping one arm around Tara's waist, using the other hand to lightly pull aside Tara's shirt, baring Tara's shoulder. She could feel Tara's hands clutching at her, her short fingernails raking up Willow's back, plunging into Willow's hair before drawing down again to cup Willow's ass, thrusting her hips forward and into her.

Willow had it all back. Every moment. Every kiss, every caress, and she was rocked to her core with wonder and desire. "How can I ever repay you, Tara?" she whispered before continuing her relentless assault of Tara's shoulder, licking, sucking, kissing, her hands aching to hold Tara's breasts.

"Just save me, Willow," Tara whispered.

Willow raised her head, and looked deep into Tara's eyes, and was crushed by the amount of sorrow and pain she found in them. Willow melted, and plundered Tara's lips again, crushing herself against them, mouth moving frantically, passion roaring within her, passion so great it felt like it was oozing from her fingers and streaking from her like lightning. Her tongue grazed every beloved and minute portion of her lover's mouth, and her breath caught in her throat again and again.

It was a long time before they pulled away from each other, and when they did they still looked in each other's eyes, and found the peace they had both been searching for. "I remember it all, Tara," Willow whispered, squeezing Tara's fingers. Tara's eyes widened, and Willow kissed her quickly, and continued, "The tree, the cemetery, everything." Willow kissed her again. "Baby, my everything," she whispered, and tucked Tara into her, and held her as Tara wept.

And in the remarkable realization of the depths of Tara's devotion, the pains she suffered to heal Willow and bring her from her coma, and the preacher, that damned preacher that even now was making Tara's every moment agony, Willow could only stand. So she stood, and the resolve that formed within her was greater than she had ever known; no demon, no vampire, no apocalypse could stand between her and saving this woman, of spending the rest of her life with this woman.

So she dared to imagine, just a little, of what it could be like between them. With Tara in her arms, the world of memories that had just been granted with her first kiss, Willow could only glimpse the edges of the idea it was so vast and beautiful. A great aching choked her, and she delicately lifted Tara's face. Looking with longing into those bellflower eyes Willow whispered, "Tara, I love you."

Tara's face widened in amazement, then in joy, then in fierce animal hunger as desperately kissed Willow, again and again. Many long minutes passed, but what is time when you're in love?

"Where are we?" Willow finally asked, reluctantly releasing her hug, but kept Tara's hand tightly wrapped in her own.

"I'm not sure," Tara said, looking around, wiping her eyes with her other hand. "This isn't your mind, I don't recognize it. I thought I had just unconsciously brought you into a mindsurf, but this is unfamiliar."

"We can answer that question," Willow heard from behind her, and she and Tara whirled around.

Standing behind them in the pearly fog were ten unearthly figures, men and women. One had stepped forward from the others, with deliciously rounded limbs and a sublime beauty that nearly made Willow gasp. "Maia," she heard Tara choke.

"Welcome to the ether," Maia said, smiling shyly. "This is the realm between your world and our own. It is from here that we gods gaze upon the world, it is from here we influence mankind. It is also from here that The First will launch its final offensive against the world."

"How did I get here?" Tara asked. "I thought I was blocked."

"We summoned you, and we are twelve. Caleb is but one," Maia explained. "You have had previous contact with the ether realm, though you may not have realized it at the time, and we needed you to bring Willow here. We've been waiting for you."

Maia strode forward and opened her arms to Tara, who let go of Willow's hand and eagerly fell into Maia's embrace. Willow squashed a momentary flash of jealousy as Maia's arms went about Tara. "Why were you waiting for us?" Willow asked after a long moment.

"It is only here that we can give you the gifts you need to combat our ancient enemy, Willow," Maia said, releasing Tara. Tara returned to Willow's side and Willow put her arm around Tara's waist, pulling her in. "We needed Tara to bring you here, she was your link to the ether realm, because we can only influence human affairs, we can't act outright. Now that you are here, we can get on to the business at hand."

A goddess stepped forward from the mists of the ether, her robe of saffron was covered in blood, and she was carrying a sword. Her voice was pitched low and she said, "Willow, I am the goddess Enyo. My gift to you is three second precognition, which will give you reflexes as fast as lightning." Enyo held the sword in her hands and stood, waiting. Regretfully Willow pulled herself away from Tara to take the proffered sword in her hands. As soon as it touched her skin, it seemed to melt inside her, and she felt the gift burrowing into her mind.

Another goddess swirled forth and she was dressed in a blue robe and held a wreath fashioned of pussy willow in her hands. Willow recognized her; her image was on the icons and posters of her Wicca group, and the goddess glowed with a vibrant green aura. "Willow, I am the goddess Hecate. I give unto you the power of teleportation." The goddess held out the wreath and Willow took it and it entered her.

And from behind her, from the corner of her eye, Willow could see Tara trembling, and her face was ashen, and her fingers rubbed at her temples. Willow longed to return to her, to take her in her arms, but she realized now that it was Caleb within her lover that was causing such pain, and only through the gifts of the gods such as these would Willow have the power to save her. Reluctantly she returned her gaze to the assembled host, as yet another god approached her.

He had wings that looked exactly as Tara's had when Willow first met her, and the god held aloft a shining winged ball

 _(golden snitch)_

and Willow stifled a wildly inappropriate giggle as the god said, "I am Cassiel, the angel of temperance and good fortune. My gift to you, Willow, is the gift of levitation and flight." Willow took the ball, and silently thanked the god, glad to see him here because he had helped her avert apocalypse once before _(poor Ben!)_ , and the gift burrowed into her skin, and expanded her mind.

Another goddess stepped forward, her robe swirling in the mists of the ether, holding a poultice. "Willow, I am Panacea," she declared solemnly, "and to you I give the gift of true healing." As Willow accepted the gift, the poultice that evaporated inside her, she could hear Tara try to repress a choked sob. Willow's heart soared. Finally. True healing. This was what she had been waiting for, what they'd both been waiting for.

A huge god, burly and masculine, with a great brown beard that partially hid his ugly face tucked behind a burn-scarred apron, he limped toward her with a blacksmith's hammer in one hand. "Willow, I am Hephaestus, god of industry. To you I grant the gift of transmutation, the power to turn one substance into another." He held the hammer to her, and it shivered, and transformed from gleaming steel into icy diamond, and she took it, and it powered through her veins.

The child stepped forward next, and Willow was surprised to see Tara stride up to stand next to Willow once more. The two witches knelt as the diminutive little goddess approached, and Willow took comfort in Tara's warm proximity. In her hands, the goddess held a pile of shards. She looked at Tara first as she said, "Willow, I am the goddess Aranaea. You freed me from exile. To you I grant the gift of psionics, and every power of the mind that comes with it, including telekinesis, and telepathy."

"Like Jedi mind control?" Willow asked excitedly. _(Xander would have been so jealous. Oh, Xander!)_ Aranaea laughed and nodded, and Willow extended her hands, but the little goddess dumped the shards onto Tara's outstretched hands instead. Then, in a sparkle of light, the shards coalesced into a great chalice, which Tara reverently held out to Willow. Willow could scarce believe all that was happening, and the great depth of her task began to materialize within her. What would be required of her, that she would need all this to accomplish it?

Willow took the chalice, the gift, and it settled inside her, expanding, building, rearranging.

In a daze she watched the next goddess appear. Next to her, Tara was smiling, and Thespia stood before Willow with a golden ring in her fingers. "Willow, I am the goddess Thespia. To you I give the gift of conjuring." The goddess slipped the ring on to Willow's finger, and it sank inside her. Before she left, she also embraced Tara, and touched the amulet that perennially lay on Tara's chest, and whispered something softly in her ear, causing Tara's face to grow sad.

Yet another god swirled forth out of the mists, flickering in and out of sight. His face was drawn from purest myth, and he had but a single eye in his broad forehead. He stood with singular arrogance, as if he expected the world to sustain him. He held aloft a peculiar cap which flickered and shone like lightning. In a deep and rumbly voice he said, "I am Cyclops, and to you I give the gift of true invisibility." He held the cap to Willow, and she stepped forward. He placed it on her head and for a moment the whole world disappeared as her scalp assimilated the gift. Then her sight returned, and she felt the new power in her body.

Maia, who had stood close by Tara this entire time, holding her hand, now turned her attention to Willow. "Willow, I have no gift for you other than knowledge." Maia raised her hand which was still joined with Tara's. "A time of great despair will come upon you," Maia said softly, "yet all you must do is remember this." Maia gestured at the glorious woman who stood at her side, who stood with downcast eyes, pain a symphony on her face. "I have her heart, Willow. **He** cannot touch it." Puzzled by Maia's words, Willow simply stood and watched as the assembled host disappeared into the mist, except for one area of darkness.

Tara's face was pale, and constricted in great pain. Willow took Tara back in her arms, her head whirling with the new power, but underneath it all was still plain little Willow, who wanted nothing more than to take away Tara's pain forever. "Is it Caleb, baby?" Willow asked softly, her arms snuggled tight around Tara.

She felt Tara's nod, and warm tears falling from Tara's cheeks.

Maia was looking on them with great despair in her eyes. "Even after all this, it may not be enough," the goddess whispered.

And the area of darkness coalesced into a cloaked goddess, wreathed in darkness, face cast in perpetual shadow. The goddess beckoned to Willow, and she very reluctantly pulled herself away from Tara. To her surprise, the dark goddess took Willow in her arms, and she was so cold, so very cold. Her voice, surprisingly high-pitched, said very softly in Willow's ear, "I am Nyx, the goddess of sleep and death, and the gift I give to you will be secret until the very moment you need it."

Willow nodded imperceptibly, then glanced down at Nyx's hands for the gift. The shade chuckled lightly. "Kiss me, Willow, and receive your gift." Willow's eyes flew wide, then spun to look at Tara, who had since slumped to the ground in great pain, half-supported by Maia. The goddess was stroking Tara's head and whispered in her ear. Then the goddess firmly put one hand directly over Tara's heart, kissing her on the forehead, whispering once again. Willow nearly abandoned the dark goddess then and there, but then both Tara and Maia looked at Willow. Willow looked at Tara, and fastened Tara's features firmly in her mind, and turned to the dark goddess.

And took the cold lips with her own, and let the goddess open her mouth, and a great ball of energy passed from the goddess into her and Willow nearly choked on it, yet she swallowed, again and again, the cold lips moving against hers until the assimilation was complete.

Willow gladly let go of the shade and turned to face Tara.

Tara was gone.

And Maia wept.

...

 _A/N: Thank you so much to those who have given me their thoughts and reviews. I'm so pleased to share this story with you, and appreciate your reviews a great deal. The story is about to get even more intense - I hope you enjoy it._


	31. In the End

**Chapter Thirty One**

 **In the End**

 _(You think this changes things, Tara? This changes nothing. In the end, I always win. Always.)_

Tara slumped to the misty ground, her head pounding in agony, Caleb's voice echoing in her mind. She lifted a hand to her ear and withdrew it; there was a shiny drop of blood, somehow dangerous and menacing in this shadow world of little colour. Maia knelt beside her, and put her warm arms around her, and cradled her. Willow was far away, consorting with the gods.

 _(I am the First, Tara. You cannot stop me.)_

Another ice pick of pain, lancing as if through her eye, nearly lobotomizing her. She was near catatonic with agony. She could barely hear Maia whisper, "I have your heart, Tara."

 _(And your girlfriend? Even with all these gifts she cannot stop me.)_

As if from a great distance Tara could see Willow step into the embrace of the dark goddess. The roaring in her ears was constant; she had no idea which goddess it was or what gift the goddess would bestow. Part of her knew she should be outraged at the idea of someone else kissing Willow, but she was shot through with another bolt of mental lightning.

 _(So come to me, little girl. I have something to show you.)_

Tara moaned in agony, and Maia was stroking her hair, and then placed her godly hand directly over Tara's heart in shocking similitude of the day they vanquished Caleb together. "You are protected, Tara," the goddess whispered, as another drop of blood fell from Tara's ear. "I have your heart. He cannot touch it."

Tara looked at Willow. She had surrendered her heart long ago. Caleb could not touch it.

 _(Come to me.)_

And the pain drew her from the ether, the pain a tether to her beleaguered body, and for a moment she opened her eyes. She was lying next to Willow on the hospital bed, their lips were still touching in the kiss that had sent them into the heavens. But she remained only a moment, before there was another tug, and Caleb screamed in victory.

Tara tumbled down the great hole of faint, scrabbling at the slippery walls for purchase, for she remembered what awaited her at the bottom, what awaited her every time she fainted into Caleb's arms. There would be scalpels. There would be blood. And only when every ounce of life drained from her body would she wake.

How many times was he going to kill her? Did he consider this practice?

Gods, please, no!

And she found herself standing next to the preacher in a dark and musty room with a dirt floor. Tara tried to move but discovered she was bound with invisible cords; she could only stand, and watch. Caleb made sweeping motions with one of his hands, and Tara was sharply reminded of the nightmare he had given her of the haunted house, how he had controlled her with one sweep of a disinterested hand. The dirt flew away, and soon he laid bare a seal inscribed with a goat's head and a pentagram.

She also noticed that none of the flying dirt touched his pristine black clothes, nor the iridescent spot of white at his throat. As always he remained clean and menacing.

"The Seal of Danzalthar," Caleb said amiably. "This one is in Sunnydale, in the basement of the high school. Through it I was going to send my army and take over the world. I was thwarted, however, by the witch, and the Slayer, and the seal was destroyed."

Tara smiled to hear it, until he noticed her little smirk. Then he took one of her fingers and casually snapped it.

Tara screamed.

"Now this one is gone," he continued, pacing around the room. Tara panted in pain, her finger throbbing. "But there is another."

Tara's eyes widened.

Caleb snapped his fingers, the world shook, and then rematerialized. She was in an unknown space, a courtyard that opened up to the stars. It was night, wherever she was, and she craned her head as much as she could in her bindings. The walls around her were ruined, armies of moss and lichen had overcome them, reducing them to the rubble that drove tourists into picture-taking frenzy. The air was clean and crisp and sharply scented of pine needles. Directly in front of them was a great stone slab.

Caleb prowled around the edges of the slab. "It is under here, Tara, the second and last Seal. I didn't want to use it, before. It's much harder to open."

 _(Faith.)_

With another generous snap of his fingers, Tara saw a vision of the first seal, the one in the school basement. She saw a pale man with bleached hair tied to a strange device that hung him over the seal, as runes knifed into his bare skin slowly dripped blood on to the shining surface of the goat's head seal.

And the seal opened, and out came the most hideous vampire she had ever seen. And she knew that hordes just like him waited just beyond the seal, waited for their moment of triumph. They didn't crave only blood, but they fed also on the misery of their victims, feasting on their screams, their struggles, and their despair.

"All the first seal needed was a token, a bare sacrifice of blood, drawn with p'achi, the knife," Caleb drawled. With a wave of his hand the vision ended, and Tara once again saw only the bare expanse of the massive stone slab, and a ring of torches blurred in the edges of the clearing. Once again, craning her head, Tara looked around. Holding the torches was...

No.

 _(Even after all these gifts, it may not be enough...)_

A vast army of undead in every form: vampire, demon, zombie, werewolf, and worse. They poured from the woods surrounding the ruins, hundreds, thousands of them, heeding the call of their Master.

And Caleb stood upon the stone slab, and his eyes were the deadest black, and power crackled from his fists like lightning. With a single forceful blow, his fist struck the stone, and it detonated, showering her in bits of granite, abrading her skin.

There was another Seal beneath him, and he pulled aside the rubble so he could stand upon it. He hunkered down on his knees, and stroked the still metal with one finger. "This other," said he, "needs far more than a token, for it is thirsty." He gestured, and a cringing vampire with haunted eyes was relentlessly pulled from the slavering crowd by the force of his will alone. "Lassa-ma!" the vampire was screaming, in a language Tara couldn't understand. "Lassa-ma in pace!" Tara could feel the horde's hungry gaze on her, and knew it was only by Caleb's command that they didn't tear her limb from limb.

Caleb caught the vampire in his hands and stood him upon the seal. Then Caleb drew an ancient blade from a sheath at his back, and the metal gleamed wickedly with thirst. It hungered for her, as it had hungered for others.

In the flickering torchlight, Tara could barely see the runes etched on the blade. Caleb nearly shivered as he handled the knife, and he drew his tongue along the flat of it, as if tasting the blood from a thousand sacrificial victims. Raising his head, his eyes shining black, he intoned, "The blood which I spill I consecrate to the oldest evil."

And he thrust it into the belly of the vampire, and ripped it sideways, and a great splash of blood assaulted the seal, and ropy entrails steamed in the cool air as the vampire's body crumpled to the ground, bursting into ash.

Yet the Seal remained shut.

"It needs a human, now," Caleb said conversationally, once again licking the blood from the blade, then he looked at her and his meaning was clear. "And every drop of that human's blood."

Tara's breath caught in her throat.

"I wouldn't worry none," he continued, coming to her, resheathing the blade. "I don't want your blood anymore. The Seal craves the blood of another."

Tara looked into his murderous eyes and thought of her father.

"Now, why on earth would I be sharing all this with you?" he said. "Especially with the witch on your side? I'm missing a few ingredients, and you're going to help me."

Tara spat on him.

He broke another finger.

Tara screamed again, and the night swallowed her cry without pity, and her cry sent the slavering horde into a frenzy of catcalls and screams, and they surged towards her, but with incredible power Caleb held them back.

"I need the knife, Tara," Caleb continued, and he drew himself around her, and fingered her hair, and breathed on her neck, and he trembled with suppressed desire.

 _(Heed your father, now, Tara.)_

She was frozen, bound, and helpless.

"Find the knife for me, will you?" he asked, and he licked her throat, and Tara blinked back tears.

He retreated and snapped his fingers, and the horde was unleashed, and Tara saw her death in their fangs. "Willow will stop you," Tara said quietly, and she welcomed them, the undead ones, the vampires, the demons, the zombies, and the werewolves.

 _(wake wake wake)_

And they tore her clothes from her, and ripped her flesh with their fangs, and pulled hanks of her hair, and crushed her ribs, and disemboweled her.

 _(I have your heart, Tara. You are protected.)_

And she fell on the Seal, and there she lay crumpled. As they reaved her, feasting on her flesh, drinking of her blood, she saw the shining metal disintegrate beneath her, the Seal vanishing as if it never existed at all.

And Tara harboured the secret deep in her heart.

 _(He cannot touch it.)_

"No one can stop me, Tara," Caleb mocked, and her eyes grew glassy, and her breathing stilled. "You'll see. In the end, Tara, nothing you can do will matter. One way or another, you will die."

Tara shuddered, and thought of crimson hair and chapped lips.

"And I will rule the world."

With her dying breath, Tara could only stare at the dust and ash beneath her and listen to Caleb laugh. "My gift to you, little girl, you will find soon," he drawled, and his voice came from far away, as the world dwindled, as her mother called her home.

 _(In the end, Tara, you will see that I am right.)_

 _(In the end.)_

And Tara woke.

Opening her eyes, Tara saw only Willow, who was actually sitting in a chair next to her own hospital bed where Tara still lay. Willow was holding her hand, and when she saw that Tara's eyes were open, she let out a low cry and stood sharply, the chair clattering to the ground behind her, as if to embrace Tara, yet she held herself back at the last moment for fear of hurting her.

And all Tara could see was the dust of the vanquished Seal underneath her, she felt far ghostly pain in her fingers, and she heard Caleb's laughter echoing in her ears. She scrambled out of the sheets as if the horde was still ravening her and threw herself into Willow's arms. Tara latched on to her love, and embraced her so tightly her demon-scored chest screeched in protest, yet she still hung on, breathing deeply of Willow's scent _(oh, the sandalwood and the roses)_ , trembling in fright, remembered agony convulsing her.

And Willow held her, and whispered nothings into her ear, and stroked her back, and rocked her gently to and fro. But it just wasn't enough, no not enough to take the sharp taste of bile from her mouth, to lance the boil of terror that grew on her, so in mute desperation Tara sought Willow's lips.

Only there, in kissing, in being kissed, did her abject terror subside, and after long moments Willow pulled Tara on to the low brown couch, her arm protectively about her, kissing her softly again and again. Only then did Tara see her own fear mirrored in Willow's eyes. "Tara, what happened?" Willow asked softly.

Tara wanted to form the words, she wanted to share the burden, but they were thick and stuck in her throat. So Willow waited, and they shared Willow's breakfast, and the food was ash in Tara's mouth. Tara took her spare set of scrubs from the closet and retreated to the bathroom to shower alone, blanketing herself in pillows of steam, the water so hot it stung her body and left her gasping.

And the pain-fiend continued to devour her.

When she returned to the room, she found Willow in earnest discussion with Ethan. Her two closest confidantes looked at her, and she was surrounded in their love.

Willow spoke first. "You fainted again, Tara. And you were bleeding from your ear. Dr. Daniels wants to do some tests. Please, Tara, will you do the tests?"

Ethan was looking at her strangely,

 _(I know you can't love me the way I love you but it's tearing me apart to see you like this!)_

maybe wondering if Tara would give in to her girlfriend when she wouldn't give in to him only the night before. Tara was terrified, but Willow was looking at her in such earnest worry, that finally Tara nodded.

Ethan was looking back and forth between the two of them, yet whatever discomfort he felt in their presence was hidden as he said, "Excellent, Tara. Monday morning, all right? All the technicians are off for the weekend. Unless you think it is an emergency?"

And Tara remembered just why she cared so deeply for Ethan. It was only last night that he had asked her, and she begged for him to wait. Tara well knew that the technicians would return if it was an emergency, but Ethan had just given her two days respite. He knew her that well, in some ways he knew her far better than Willow did, and in that moment she could have kissed him.

"It's no emergency," Tara said softly, looking carefully at Ethan, silently thanking him. He imperceptibly nodded, looked once more at Willow, his face showing a little amazement that the recently-comatose girl was standing on her own two feet, and then he left once more.

Willow opened her arms, and Tara walked into them, and felt herself get tucked away in the corners of Willow's heart. "What do you need, baby?" she whispered into Tara's ear.

Tara's head continued to thud, and white sheets of light-headedness made the world seem surreal.

"Sleep, Willow. I need to sleep."

Willow steered Tara to her slim hospital bed and sat her down. With a light push, she had Tara lay down fully on the narrow bed, tucking her legs beneath the sheets, drawing the blanket over her. "You aren't joining me?" Tara asked, her voice thick with slurry exhaustion.

Willow's emerald eyes twinkled, and she pushed the little table aside so she could lay down next to Tara. Tara's thick eyes were already closed, so she felt Willow pulling a little at her body, spooning into her like they had last night. Once again Willow kissed the nape of her neck, and then she laid her hand on Tara's hip. "I have been gifted, Tara Maclay," Willow whispered. "And I will save you."

And before sleep overcame her, Tara remembered  
 _  
we heal by sacrifice, Tara. And if you're going to take it, you're going to give it away..._

 _Willow, I am Panacea, and to you I give the gift of true healing..._

 _Even after all this, it may not be enough..._

 _In the end, I always win, Tara. Always..._

 _It needs a human, now, and every drop of that human's blood..._

 _I have been gifted, Tara Maclay. And I will save you..._

 _In the end.  
_  
Tara slept.


	32. Rat

**Chapter Thirty Two**

 **Rat**

Later, Willow lay on the couch and stared at her legs. She could feel the hurt underneath the thin hospital bathrobe. Tara was softly snoring in the bed near her. Willow looked at her as Tara shifted position, then returned her stare to her legs.

 _(I just realized I could.)_

Amy had been a rat for years. And one night Willow was sitting despondently in her room, thinking about Oz and the hurtful things he said to her. She went to the cage and drew out the rat. What had she said to Amy? Something about how hurt and lonely she was.

And the answer came to her, and it was clear as crystal.

No more pet rat.

 _("Hi Buffy," said Amy._

 _"Hi." Buffy was astonished. "How've you been?"_

 _"Rat. You?"_

 _"Dead."_

 _"Oh. Got any cookies?")_

Willow stared at her legs, and power coruscated in her mind, new power, raw, untrained, delicious.

 _(I just realized I could.)_

So Willow closed her eyes, and focused on that new power, and brought the image of Panacea to her mind, the poultice the goddess had been holding, the one that melted into her, and it had felt so good, so right.

"Heal," Willow said softly.

And it was that simple. A heat wave rippled through her, starting at her toes, and she watched as the cuts disappeared, replaced by smooth and unmarked skin. The ripple continued, and the faint abrasions at her knuckles also vanished, and her lungs tingled with power, and she licked her unchapped lips as the wave crashed over her skull.

Just like that, it was over. She was healed.

Willow stood up; her muscles didn't ache or screech. Instead they felt fresh and ready to run. She jumped up and down, landing softly on the balls of her feet. No pain. None at all.

It was over.

Willow walked confidently to Tara's side. She didn't want to wake her girl, but she didn't have to. She softly took Tara's hand, and she closed her eyes, and focused on that power once again.

"Heal," Willow repeated.

But the power recoiled off the great adamant wall. Willow frowned, and pushed harder. Nothing. Harder still. Nothing, and Tara shivered in remembered pain, her eyelids furiously twitching in dreams.

Willow wasn't too disappointed. That would have been too easy. There would be another way. She would find another way, she always did.

 _("You're like, cool monster fighter."_

 _"I always had a monster fighting team.")_

No team anymore, and remembering Buffy and Amy and Oz made her hurt. They were all gone, and she and Tara were alone, and she was supposed to save the world yet again. Tara had told her almost everything, but Willow still had no idea how she was supposed to help this wondrous woman. The raw power within her almost scared her – she had grown enamored of magic in her past, though Xander had stopped her before anything bad had happened. In her nightmares since then she could see herself doing terrible things, and that frightened her more than anything else.

But this power felt fundamentally different, and ever Willow looked upon her angel, her nurse, her paladin. It was because of Tara. Tara grounded her, gave her purpose and meaning and direction.

 _(Just what does Tara mean to you, Willow?)_

Althanea. Willow closed her eyes and focused all her attention on the British witch, then called out with her mind... _*Althanea, can you hear me?*_

Surprise. Willow could feel it emanating from the witch, even though she was hundreds of miles away.

 _*Willow?*_

 _*Althanea, you need to come. Tara fainted again and I really need to talk to you.*_

Pause. Willow could feel the hesitation. _*It will take a little time, Willow, I don't have access to a car.*_

 _*Why don't you teleport?*_

Surprise. Wonder.

 _*How on earth do you know I can do that? I never told Tara.*_

 _*Please. Come.*_

 _*Stand away from the picture of Mount Kilimanjaro. That's where I'll appear.*_

 _*Okay. Thank you.*_

Willow was nowhere near the picture, but she moved even further away, standing by the bank of machines that so recently had been dedicated to keeping her alive.

There was a slim pop, and the curly haired supplicant of Hecate suddenly appeared by the picture. Willow swiftly walked to her, and Althanea's eyes shot wide, and then she grasped Willow's hands.

"Willow, you are walking." She looked over Willow's shoulder and saw Tara asleep in Willow's bed. "What has gone on here?" Althanea asked, dropping Willow's hands to sit on the lone chair by Tara's side.

Willow visualized a similar chair, and, gesturing, said, "Chair." With another slim pop, an identical plastic chair appeared next to the astonished witch. Willow smiled broadly and sat down, almost enjoying the look of shock on Althanea's face.

Althanea took Tara's hand, but she looked at Willow. "You have something to tell me," she said wryly.

And Willow bubbled with her secret. "Better than that," she said. "May I show you?"

 _(By having my fingers touch someone, I can seep into their consciousness and enter their mind.)_

She took Althanea's other warm hand, and was surprised by the wrinkles in the woman's palm. Althanea looked young, but was probably in her sixties, at least, judging by the lines.

 _(My mother called it mindsurfing.)_

Willow closed her eyes, and there was the now-familiar whoosh, then both she and Althanea stood in the mists of the ether, looking upon the gathered pantheon as observers. Willow coaxed the memory, and then the two of them watched as her memory-self accepted gift after gift from the pantheon. Well, Althanea was watching the gift exchange, and Willow noticed her smile as Althanea looked upon her patronness Hecate, but Willow was really watching Tara, and her heart broke as she watched her girl suffer. As Tara fell to the ground, Willow wished she could rush to Tara's side, and kiss her, and make it all better, but she could only look, not touch.

Then it was over, and Althanea nodded at Willow, and the red-haired witch brought them out of the ether and back into the hospice.

"Well," Althanea said finally. "That explains a lot."

Willow lifted her robe from her lower legs, and showed Althanea the creamy and unmarked skin. "I healed myself," Willow said, and then she let the fabric fall back down. "But I still can't heal her."

Althanea sighed. "I didn't expect it would be that easy," she admitted.

"I guess not," Willow replied. "Any luck finding a demon?"

"We've actually found quite a few," Althanea said. "Capturing them is the major problem. My power isn't strong enough to hold them, so we always end up killing them just as they break their bonds." Althanea looked sharply at Willow. "We could certainly use your help, Willow."

And Willow couldn't suppress the thrill of excitement that came over her. Deep down, she admitted to herself that she missed the adrenaline of being a Scooby, of the terror of the unknown. It would never inflame her quite as it inflamed Faith

 _(And Xander slept with her...)_

but she couldn't deny the tingle that came over her at the thought of demon-hunting. Not that she was bored here with Tara, just that this was what she was born to do.

 _(It's a good fight, Buffy, and I want in.)_

"I'd be happy to help," Willow replied truthfully, knowing she would do just about anything for this woman who had helped them both so much. She looked over at Tara again; her nurse was sleeping fitfully with a look of far pain on her face.

"Althanea, I still don't even know what I'm supposed to do," Willow finally admitted. She looked at the older witch, one she had spoken on the phone to a dozen times or more this past year, yet she never realized, did she, how young-seeming Althanea was, how wise, how wonderful? With her nurse asleep, and only in front of this British witch, could Willow lay bare the worry in her heart.

"I'm scared, Althanea," she said quietly, looking at her legs. Then she looked up at met Althanea's firm gaze. "Tara has told me that she is the lamb, and every time she does so, I get the horrible feeling that the gods intend to use her like she uses the rabbits."

Althanea made no movement, no sound.

"They are going to put every darkness this world has to offer in that frail little body, and then they are going to sacrifice her, aren't they?"

Still no reply.

Willow grew angry. "Like hell I'm going to sit around and just wait for them to make her their sacrificial lamb! Mayor Wilkins was going to destroy Sunnydale and eat our graduation class and we stopped him. They said Adam couldn't be stopped, but we stopped him too, didn't we? Glory herself was a God and we put paid to her," and then Willow's face grew shocked and white. "Buffy," she whispered.

"There is always a sacrifice, Willow," Althanea said sadly. "And Buffy died to save the world. Again."

Willow's throat closed up with anger and sorrow. "So what am I supposed to do?" she finally choked out. "Just let them kill her? I just found her! I love her!"

"Why do you think we sent you to Tara, Willow?" Althanea asked.

Willow was stopped in her tracks. "There are other healers," Willow said slowly.

"Yes," Althanea readily admitted. "We sent Faith to one of them, in Romania."

"Yet you sent me to Tara."

"And why do you suppose that is?"

 _(I just realized I could.)_

The answer swum into Willow's mind, effortless. "You knew I would fall in love with her," Willow whispered.

"She's very easy to love."

"You knew that if I loved her, I would find a way to save her." Willow's voice grew excited again.

"We love her, too, Willow, and we knew her best chance of survival would be with you at her side." Althanea smiled and patted Willow's hand. "After all you have done, after Mayor Wilkins and Adam and Glory and The First, we knew if anyone could do it, it would be you."

"So what I am supposed to do?" Willow asked excitedly.

 _*Tara may be listening.*_

 _*Why should that matter?*_

 _*Caleb has access to all her thoughts, all her memories. Whatever information we give her, we give also to him.*_

 _*Oh.*_

 _*There is a little time yet, Willow. Take Tara home, and in a few days come to me in Sunnydale. If the demon works, I have a very good idea of what we must do.*_

 _*And if it doesn't?*_

 _*Then I'm afraid it's all in your hands, dear one.*_ Dismissal, and Althanea motioned as if to leave.

 _*You will stay until Tara wakes, won't you?*_

 _*You caught me on the hop earlier. We now have the scythe, but we're still looking for p'achi. Angel and I are scouring Sunnydale, and we better find it before someone else does.*_

Willow was so surprised to hear the word that she said aloud, "P'achi? What is that?"

 _*Do you not remember the knife?*_

Willow found she did remember that black and terrifible knife, the one that murdered Jonathon, etched deeply with proto-Tawarick runes, and how angry they had been to discover it in their cutlery drawer.

 _*We didn't know it had a name.*_

 _*A name and a purpose. The knife is old, Willow. It was used by the Mayan civilization for their rituals of human sacrifice. Its name actually means human sacrifice. Translated literally, it also means 'to open the mouth'.*_

 _*Mayan. Andrew found the knife in Mexico.*_

 _*Yes. Our lives depend on finding that knife before The First does. Do you remember what happened the last time the knife was used?*_

 _*To open the Seal of Danzalthar. But we destroyed the seal!*_

 _*So you did. But there is a legend, only a myth, really, that there is a final seal.*_

 _*Where is it?*_

Chagrin. _*We don't know.*_

 _*I need a laptop and an internet connection.*_

 _*Yes. Take Tara home and get to work. Contact Faith. Tell her the final battle is coming. Playtime is over. Now I really must go.*_

 _*Thank you for coming.*_

In response, Althanea drew Willow in a tight and comforting hug. _*Just save her, Willow. We love her, too.*_

 _*I will.*_

There was another slim pop and Althanea vanished. Willow turned her head and noticed that Tara was already starting to wake up, shifting in the bed and rubbing her eyes. She walked quickly to the bedside and leaned down to give her lover a kiss.

"Mmm," Tara murmured, then her eyes flew wide open. "Your lips aren't chapped," she said, lifting an eyebrow in confusion. Willow sat on the chair near the bed and lifted her hospital robes to her knees to show off the white and unmarked skin underneath.

"I healed myself," Willow said softly, "With the gift of Panacea." She was a little worried about Tara's response, so she continued, "I tried to heal you again, Tara, I really did, but I just can't get past Caleb's wall. I'm so sorry."

"Darling," Tara said, sitting up in the bed and taking Willow's face in her hands. "Ssh, it's all right. We'll find another way." She used that convenient position to kiss Willow again, softly, on the lips.

"Tara?" Willow asked softly, loving how her face was cradled in Tara's hands.

"Mmm?"

"What happened when you left the ether?" Willow asked softly. Seeing the look of pain on Tara's face, Willow pulled her over to the couch and they sat down together, and Willow took comfort in Tara's hand on her knee.

"Caleb pulled me out," Tara said slowly. "Every time I faint, I... go to him."

Willow saw through the words, and in alarm she asked, "Then what happened?"

"He showed me the Seal of Danzalthar, the one in the high school," Tara said, looking at her hand on Willow's knee. It was eerie for Willow to hear the words from her nurse, echoing the conversation she just had with Althanea, and she concentrated with ferocity on Tara's words. "He showed me another seal."

"Did he say where it was?" Willow asked with bated breath.

"No," Tara replied, and Willow deflated a little. "But there was a vampire there, who used a strange language." At Willow's expression, Tara reluctantly continued, "I don't even recall the words, or what they sounded like. Only they sounded Latin, maybe Spanish? Italian?

"He said the first seal only needed a little blood to open, but that the second seal was thirsty. He said it would need a human, and all of that human's blood in order to open it."

Willow was shocked. It was true. The gods were going to sacrifice her girl, her love, her reason for being. But Tara touched Willow on the face and said, "He doesn't want my blood now, Willow. He needs the blood of another to open the seal. Blood, and a ..."

"A what?" Willow asked impatiently.

"A knife," Tara whispered, and then she covered her mouth with her hand as if ashamed she had said the words. Her face suddenly constricted in pain, then slackened once more. Willow wanted to ask more questions, to bombard her really, playtime was over, Willow, it's research time, but her girl looked so sick and so frightened, Willow let it be.

She would regret that before the end.

Tara stretched and asked, "What time is it?"

"Barely two in the afternoon," Willow replied. "Are you hungry? What can I get for you?"

"I really should get home," Tara said wistfully, holding Willow's hand. "I have to do some grocery shopping and some laundry."

"Take me with you," Willow said abruptly.

"Willow," Tara laughed, but then she cocked her head and said, "Well, actually." She looked at Willow then with the eyes of a trained nurse. "Walk for me," she asked.

Willow smiled and walked briskly across the room, shaking her fanny once from near the doorway. Tara smiled. "Jump up and down," Tara asked. Willow obliged, and jumped lightly on the balls of her feet several times. "Touch your toes." Willow bent over, then noticed the cheeky glee in Tara's eyes as the nurse unabashedly stared at the white cleavage Willow showed.

"You're so busted!" Willow gasped. "You were checking me out!" She mock-glared at Tara as she returned to the couch.

"It worked, didn't it?"

Willow gave Tara a quick peck on the cheek. "So, do I pass inspection?" she asked, turning around. Willow found she could hardly wait to put on some real clothing, maybe some of the stuff that Buffy would wear on her dates, leather pants and thin tops, and see what Tara's response would be then. Thinking of it made her blush.

"What are you thinking about?" Tara asked slyly.

 _*Never you mind.*_ Willow thought back.

Tara's eyes widened as she heard Willow's soft voice in her head. "The gift," she said.

"One of many," Willow replied. "Can we go home now?"

Tara left the room to search out Dr. Daniels, and Willow took the opportunity to reach Faith. She had never attempted to contact someone telepathically over such a distance – even contacting Althanea had been a major victory for her. There were a few false starts, but then, concentrating more on Faith's brazen and capricious nature than on her face, Willow struck through.  
 _  
*Faith. Faith. It's Willow.*_

If Willow thought she detected surprise from Althanea, it was nothing compared to the shock of surprise coming from Faith, but the surprise faded nearly instantly, Slayer reflexes and all.

 _*Damn it, Red. Where are you calling from?*_

 _*I'm still in California. Faith, are you all right?*_

 _*Five by five, Red. I'm all fixed up and cooling my heels. You caught me right in the middle of some vampire trashing.*_

 _*Have you found any Slayers?*_

 _*Bout twelve, only five I would actually use in a fight.*_

 _*Train them, Faith.*_

 _*What's going on, Red?*_

 _*The end of the world.*_

 _*Again?*_

Willow wasn't fooled. She could hear the undercurrent of excitement in Faith's voice. This is what the dark-haired Slayer lived for. How to succinctly describe the current Big Bad and not lose Faith's attention?

 _*Caleb isn't gone. He's looking for the knife and then he's going to use it to open the second seal.*_

 _*Where's the seal?*_

Chagrin. _*We don't know, yet. Can you just get prepared? Once I know where the battle is, I can teleport you there with me.*_

 _*Teleport? What are you, TurboWillow?*_

 _*You could say that.*_

Willow could feel the Slayer getting antsy through their delicate link. It was night in Romania, and Faith was on the prowl. Besides, Willow could hear Tara and Dr. Daniels returning.

 _*Just be ready, okay?*_

 _*You know me; born ready.*_

The link was thin, and Tara and the good doctor were walking through the door, but Willow sent out, _*Faith, thanks for saving my life.*_

 _*We're cool, Red. Check ya later.*_

Tara had a quizzical look on her face as she entered and saw Willow's open-eyed detachment, but since Willow regained her composure quickly, the look also faded. It took some persuading, but finally Dr. Daniels relented. After examining Willow with all the cool detachment of a doctor, and after Willow showed him some of her more flamboyant new gifts (going invisible and taking his stethoscope from his chest, turning it into solid diamond and then back again), he signed the discharge papers.

He looked at Tara once as he signed them, noticing her hand in hand with Willow. "You have your mandatory week off, Tara," he said quietly. "After Monday's tests, have you thought about going home?"

Willow looked between the two of them, seeing something she didn't quite understand, something about the family that Tara never seemed to mention.

"I've thought about it," Tara said softly, in a don't-ask-me-now tone. Dr. Daniels ruffled his hand through his hair, looked once again between the two of them, staring now at Willow's magically healed legs. Willow knew that he was remembering their conversation.

Softly, knowing he would be surprised, she sent, _*I will save her, Dr. Daniels. You will see.*_

His eyes widened at the mental intrusion, and he stared now at her eyes. Tentatively, she heard him respond, _*I love her too, you know.*_

Willow simply nodded, and Tara looked at them both. "This is for you," Ethan said, handing a thick envelope to Willow.

"What is it?" Willow asked, starting to rip the envelope open.

"It's from the British guy who donated the funds to send you here. I believe it's the details of your trust fund. You're a wealthy woman now, you know?"

Willow opened the envelope and saw two thick piles of 100 dollar bills, along with a letter and several credit-style cards. In a flash she remembered her conversation with her mother, how Sheila had wondered if the Council was going to force her into indentured service for giving her all this money. She remembered her unspoken reply, that they would use her, send her throughout the world to put out evil fires. For now Willow put those thoughts from her mind. For now, it was enough to think of the laptop she could buy, the monitors and the servers, and start her quest for the second seal of Danzalthar, and for p'achi, the knife. She could take Tara on a date, and buy new clothes, and even get a pet, if she wanted to.

But no rats.


	33. I am the First

**Chapter Thirty Three**

 **I am the First**

Before the Old Ones, I was. Before the Word, before the Bang, I was. At the very dawn of time I spun myself into existence and took power from the ether. I am the counter-weight, the equalizer. I am the source of all evil, and I am necessity. Without me there would be no good, just as without chaos there would be no law. I am the antidote to love, I am the Bringer of all pain, and in these my tasks I find much contentment. I have stared into the crucible of human existence and poured forth all my malice, cruelty, and hate.

And this world will be mine. As it once was, shall be again.

For I am the First.

For I was its creator, and by my power I made of it a Hell, and my demons gloried in it. For untold eons my children walked the earth, but not I. I am not god nor demon, male nor female. I am naught but power. I desired flesh of my own, more than I desired all other things. But then the gods came. They routed us, and took possession of our lands, and bound us back to the ether. But I left vestiges; magicks, demons, talismans and rude rituals, to prepare our way to return. I also left Tawarick – the last full-blooded demon, to taint and infect the world with my spawn. And he gloried in human sacrifice, and made unto me a knife, and called it p'achi. In proto-Tawarick runes etched on the blade, and with every heart that quivered beneath it, he would intone, "The blood which I spill I consecrate to the oldest evil."

And I was pleased.

The gods love their children, and they love this world, yet they do not always love each other. In their division, my chance at gaining flesh once again revealed itself. For some became Guardians, and in the wild primeval forest of Roumania, on the great plateau of the Stone Mountain, they forged a weapon, and ensorcelled it, and called it my downfall. They traveled half way around the world to use it to slay my child Tawarick, and then they hid themselves from all mankind, especially the Shadow Men.

I am the counter-weight, the great balancer. For any such power comes with a consequence, so as they spirited away this weapon, this scythe, I took from among my worshipers a wicked priest of the order of Danzalthar, and I had him slain, perverting the great white magic of the Guardians, and formed a Seal. With the right combination of events and magics the Seal would open, and I could send my armies through, and when more than half the world bowed their knee to me, I would be made flesh.

And I smiled, for I knew of it, yet they did not. For I hid the Seal, and called it my last resort, for of perverted white magic was it formed, and it would be powerful in the hands of the gods, to keep me from ever attaining flesh. Yet they knew I was necessity, and they knew that even without flesh, I was still power.

And ever shall be.

The Shadow Men were sent of other gods, who thought much of themselves and took their own counsel. What they desired they would take by force, and thus I crept my own will among them, and turned them from the paths of their gods to my own paths. They saw the spawn of Tawarick, and they took a girl, and chained her to the Earth, and forced demonic power upon her, gave her strength, adaptability, quick reflexes, fast healing, and prophetic dreams. Thus they thought to circumvent my coming. They created a Slayer, and then they Watched.

My priests did more than watch. The order of Danzalthar, they grew in immensity, and circled the globe, and brought much hardship to human civilizations. At times the gods would come down, be born into mortal bodies, try to influence mankind and fulfill ancient prophecy. Some were born to the Greeks, some were born to the Egyptians, and some were born to the Chinese. One was Viracocha, and he was born unto the Incas in the New World, and he undid much of my work.

I realized I needed a foothold in the New World, another gateway. It could not be as powerful, for I had no residue of magic to pervert. I caused my spirit to enter one of the priests, and he shepherded a thousand young fanatics up the western coastline, following the call of the hellmouth. With p'achi he slew them, and took of their power, for that is the gift of p'achi – to take power. Of their spilt blood he fashioned another Seal, weaker than the first. More easily opened, more easily shut, but locked until blood spilled with p'achi opened it anew. After that, any blood at all would open the gate. Only tears of the murderer would close it again, and I was content, for what murderous man has pure regret in his heart?

Centuries passed and I withdrew somewhat from the world, as its entertainments grew thin with monotony and repetition. The gods noticed, and sent another god to the earth, to live as a mortal, and to fulfill prophecy. I had never heeded the prophecy, for the sacrifice was too great, in my eyes. For what god would gladly accept death, and exile?

So Aranaea was born, in the jungles of the New World. Ever among the pantheon she had sported herself as a child, and much distracted the other gods with her playful wiles. Here upon the earth she grew, leaving behind her childish ways, and she took upon herself a husband, and bore a girl child. I should have watched Aranaea more vigilantly. I didn't realize any god would fulfill the ancient prophecy to drive out my spirit, to bind me beyond the ether.

And then a female Guardian, who had been with her, and called her much-beloved, wielded the scythe and clove the god in two. Aranaea was banished in exile, and astonishingly, so was I. The great balance was maintained; for my absence from the world she would also absent herself.

My priesthood was left to itself. I could no longer see my world, no longer whisper, no longer guide. I was trapped beyond the ether, waiting for the three thousand years to run out, or for the right events to present themselves. My rage knew no bounds, and I swore destruction on my ancient enemy, and on her progeny.

The right event finally occurred. A Slayer was slain and her soul sought the ether. But Osiris was beguiled by the Slayer's friends, one among them a witch of some power, and the god ripped a hole in the ether, and the Slayer lived again.

There was a hole. And the gods thought little of it, for they are weak and simple minded and much given in contemplation of their humans.

Through it I escaped my exile, and plotted the downfall of the Slayer line. My priesthood regained its former fervor, and they sought new worshipers for me by the thousands, concentrating on the area of the hellmouth and the Seal. Any man who was boiled in sin, who wore sin like a cloak and gloried in it, that man was called to me. Many of them never realized that my mark was put upon them, only their families or their friends noticed the blackening of their hearts, the worsening of their dreams.

How I enjoy the shrieking.

And now I hunted the descendants of Aranaea, of her one girl child, but in my age-long exile they had vanished from my sight. I could not exact my tumultuous revenge upon them, reave exquisite justice from their very bones. Until now.

I am power, I have not flesh. I could walk among man clothed in the illusion of the dead, but never of the living, for they could not cross the bounds of the ether. In my illusions of the dead I concocted my plan – to erase the line of the Slayer, for it was she who stood in my way. She even slew my right arm, my mighty Caleb, though all unbeknownst his spirit was trapped in the scythe until his body could be restored. They almost vanquished me, the Slayer and her friends.

I underestimated the witch. For she took of the scythe, and invoked it's power, and the goddess who had once allowed herself to be slain by it entered her, and with borrowed power the witch transformed every potential Slayer into a true Slayer.

I thought I was finished. How to kill thousands of Slayers when I could barely kill one?

My Caleb, he is crafty. He took of his chance, and entered the witch's mind, and entertained himself with torturing her. And I took thought to myself, with the second seal destroyed, all that remained was the first, the more powerful, the more dangerous. Thus we would have stayed, imprisoned forever, if not for the girl.

How strange that the girl I thought of for untold millennia, and hunted with fervor once I broke my bounds, is also the child of one of my new priests? The line of Aranaea was hidden in obscurity, in simple minded farmers. They chose never to use the gifts of their ancestry, the gifts of healing and mind control, to gain favour among men, to become rich or powerful. I sought them among the elite, and stumbled over her in the oddest place. The remnants of the Shadow Men, the Watchers, led me directly to her.

And the girl doesn't even know her divine heritage.

Now my servant, my right arm, my dearest priest Caleb, is a guest in her mind. I had thought to break open the hellmouth and rule the world, but the witch and the Slayer stopped me.

This time is even better. The portents are ripe, the time is nigh. The witch won't stop me again. I can see them even now, for mine eye is always upon them. They walk about her house, they touch each other endlessly in doing their mindless chores, they sit and they kiss. I am the antidote to their love.

The witch is powerful. She has been gifted. If I could kill her with the knife, I would not need to kill the others. She has proved hard to kill in the past, much more so now. But her love – therein is her power, and her weakness, and I will exploit it.

Once the Amulet of Thespia fails, it will all begin. Caleb will fight to possess the girls body. If he can overcome her defences, and I have much faith in my best-beloved son, he can begin his greatest and final task. My minions will bring him the knife. One by one he will hunt and kill the chief supplicants of the gods and take of their power.

I must be cautious. Caleb will be restored to his body, and then the girl must be killed. If she finds her way to the Seal she could destroy it. She is the direct descendant of Aranaea. I would be forever denied flesh, and reduced again to mere power. Yet the girl cannot be killed until Caleb is restored.

Caleb knows I intend to unlock the Seal. The Seal is thirsty, it requires blood. Even among my priesthood there are few men on earth who are evil enough to open the Seal, their treachery deep in their blood. Caleb is one. The girl's father is another. How quaint.

It all begins with the amulet.

So they go to seek a demon, do they? They think to strip healing from it? I will watch, and when the time is ripe I will infuse the demon with my power. Not to kill her, for that also would be the end.

I must break the amulet.

...

A/N: Much love and thanks to all the new readers of this story. I'm so pleased to have people reading it and sharing their thoughts. Thank you so much! Next chapter will be pretty awesome; Ch 34: Sunday Afternoon. Some much needed Tara and Willow time. Cheers!


	34. Sunday Afternoon

**Chapter Thirty Four**

 **Sunday Afternoon**

Faith had a devil of a time learning how to pronounce the name of the town she was currently living in. Irina, the Romanian healer, had impeccable English, yet she could never quite explain the peculiar roll of the a in the name. Irina had more patience than Faith thought was possible in a human, yet she finally told Faith to pronounce the name, "like taco, but with a 'b' in front."

Bacau.

During the day, the streets teemed with people going about their business, the wide sidewalks patterned in tiled mosaics, the street vendors constantly slinging water on the ground to keep down the dust, and Faith grew enamored of their easy-going grace, their musical language, and their fantastic bread. She was fascinated by the roosters; cagey animals that decided to crow whenever the hell they felt like it, whether midmorning or midnight.

During the night, however, when the rats crept from the sewers to nibble at the garbage heaps and the street dogs ran in packs, Faith found herself creeping from apartment block to apartment block, on the hunt.

It may be Sunday afternoon elsewhere, but in Romania it was past midnight and the streets were dark and empty. Faith stalked through an alley, unconsciously holding her nose closed against the smell of decaying garbage. Now she appreciated Spike, now that she had five Slayerettes following her that had no idea of how to hunt, how to fight, how to slay... she could have used a tame demon on a leash.

There. Her prey, a lanky dark-skinned newly turned vampire, leaped from the ground floor to a second floor balcony and hung there. Faith drew her stake and licked her full and luscious lips. The moon hung nearly a week from full, bright and luminous, and it illuminated the alley far more than the sickly street lamps.

Then there was a loud clatter from behind her, a quickly hushed Romanian epithet, and the hissing of several other girls as they told each other to shut up and be quiet. Faith rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the balcony. The vampire was gone.

She whirled back to the girls, all five of whom were far younger than Faith had ever allowed herself to be. One, Mihaela, had fairly decent English, and she translated for the rest. Faith swallowed her anger at the raw and untrained girls and said instead, "Okay, we've lost him. How do we find him again?"

Mihaela quickly translated, and the others looked at her with a measure of fear and bright anticipation in their eyes. They babbled a bit, and Mihaela translated a little, but Faith quickly grew tired of their inane chatter. Her Potentials in Sunnydale were never like this, were they? Small, frightened, clueless?

Don't kid yourself.

Faith drew her gaggle of girls toward the river, always looking up at the balconies above for her missing prey. She caught sight of him once, but didn't say anything, hoping that at least one of the others had seen him too. Happily, it was Mihaela who hissed and pointed. The girls started jogging quietly, closing the distance between them and the vampire, who was now trapped between them and the flowing banks of the sewage-clotted river.

And from the corner of her eye Faith saw another shape running towards the vampire. "What the f...?" she cried out, and took off over the grass-tussocked ground, easily keeping her balance in the dark. Faith's cry had startled the vampire, and he didn't see the other dark shape coming straight for him. In seconds, the unknown woman had jumped the vamp, staked him in the heart, and fell through the shattering cloud of dust on to the ground.

Faith was angry. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hissed, in English no less.

The woman straightened, and glared with haughty pride at Faith, who was instantly torn in emotion. On the one hand, she was indignant that anyone else would presume to do her job, especially as she was feeling no Slayer vibes at all from this enigmatic woman. On the other hand, the girl was beautiful in the sultry dark way Faith ascribed to being European. The moonlight drenched her face, making her lips appear dark. "You do not hunt alone, Slayer," the woman said softly in perfect English. "Jude of the Order of the Crescent hunts with you."

Faith smiled at her. The vamp was dead, the night was young.

And Faith was hot.

...

It was Sunday afternoon, and infernally hot outdoors. Rack the warlock didn't notice, as he was inside the air-conditioned confines of some abandoned restaurant just outside imploded Sunnydale. He stared at the body before him, laid on the cool stainless steel of the restaurant's kitchen counter and found himself trembling with fatigue. He had boasted to his clientèle that his spells lasted for days, and he had always had enough magic. Until now.

He was nearly completely drained. The task he had been at for the past three weeks, it had taken his every reserve. Now he lifted his pale and scarred face from the monotonous view of the clammy and naked body before him and saw the ranks of Bringers that were his constant companions. And jailers.

He thought of escape.

Instantly The First appeared before him as Caleb, dressed immaculately in his black clothes, his shoes actually shining as if they'd just been spit polished by the devil. Rack stifled a laugh. Caleb lifted his eyebrow and said, "Do you have a problem seeing me like this?"

"Just a little disconcerting," Rack rumbled, waving his hand at the dead body on the counter. He wished he had a bowl of strawberries and a cold beer. He hadn't eaten in days. And now that his magic was nearly gone, all spent in the herculean task The First had lain upon him, a little part of him knew that he wouldn't leave this restaurant alive.

Caleb looked down at the body, splayed out like a cold dead fish. The body that had been neatly reaved in two pieces just three weeks earlier by the blonde Slayer displayed no sign of the incipient decay that usually beset human bodies, thanks to Rack and his magic. Also thanks to Rack the warlock, who had lived near a hundred years and corrupted a thousand lives and fed on the life force of others, the body was neatly joined together again, every artery reattached, every organ realigned, done with a deftness of skill that left no mark on the fair skin. Caleb's body lay in repose, just waiting for the spark of resurrection.

"You did a fine job," Caleb complimented, looking down at his body. "Now we just have to wait for the girl."

Rack wondered if he could gather enough magic to teleport away, or to blast holes through the ranks of Bringers that kept constant watch on him with their blinded eyes. "Now, now," Caleb chided, and he morphed instantly into the hulking form of a Tawarick demon – the terrifying spawn of the last full-blooded demon, the same sort of demon that had once made mince-meat out of Rack's face.

Rack shivered in the cold and stared at the eyes of the demon. "I need you yet, warlock," the demon rumbled. "Do you not believe in your reward?"

Visions of scantily clad witches and legions of power passed through Rack's mind. "Keep the body ready, and you shall have your greatest wish," the demon said, morphing back into the long preacher.

Right now, that would be strawberries. And enough time to enjoy them.

...

Time. There was just not enough time. Althanea felt the depth of her task weigh on her, even as she meditated in a cool hotel room in Los Angeles. It was Sunday afternoon, and Cassandra, the coven's seer, still had not contacted her with the information she sought. Perhaps there were some veils the seer's eye could not penetrate, some mysteries that were altogether too deep.

She had not anticipated her involvement with this fight. She thought she was just going to America to deliver a message to Tara. The tattered remnants of the Watcher's Council had contacted her soon after she had left the hospice that great day Tara had brought Willow out of her coma. Robson had been gracious yet adamant that Althanea help Angel retrieve the scythe. Her single task of being messenger had turned into a nightmare succession of nearly impossible tasks involving demon hunting and healing and everything in between.

But she'd do it. To the ends of the earth, she'd do it. For Tara, she'd do it. She'd failed once, long ago, and she wouldn't again.

Althanea sighed. Her meditation was nearly fruitless. She opened her eyes and scooped up the focusing crystal, tucked it back into her pants pocket. Between one breath and the next, a figure, a beloved and much-missed figure, appeared sitting on the floor next to her.

Althanea blinked.

"Hey, mom," the figure said softly. "You look tired. You're working too hard, you know? The Council can't expect you to save the world by yourself."

"You're not her," Althanea breathed, and her heart thud heavily in her chest, tears prickled behind her eyes.

"I'm not her?" the teenage girl softly mocked, her pearly white teeth shining, and Althanea remembered when Maggie had fallen once roller-blading and chipped her upper tooth. "That's a fine thing to say. You didn't used to be so doubting. Remember when I persuaded you that the waterslide was really small and easy and I forgot to tell you about the twelve foot drop to the pool underneath?"

Althanea began to weep. It wasn't fair. With her daughter sitting near her, Althanea could remember hundreds of other Sunday afternoons, bright and fair, sparkling with the energy of her teenager experiencing all the throes of life.

"The look on your face!" Maggie chuckled. "Then the lifeguard just stood there, you were half-drowning, and all he could say was, 'get out of the pool, lady!'."

"You're not her," Althanea repeated, wiping her eyes angrily. "You're The First."

"First daughter, maybe," the girl responded. "How about first to die? I beat all of you to that one, didn't I?"

"I'm so sorry," Althanea whispered. She had hoped not to remember this, had hoped that helping Tara would help ease her conscience. She had failed, once. She wasn't about to fail again.

"I shouldn't have, though," Maggie continued, relentless. "I was nineteen, mom! My life was just beginning!"

Althanea couldn't take anymore. She closed her eyes and with a slim pop, she vanished from the room.

Her daughter swung her brown hair around her face, smiling, then she, too, disappeared. Her message wasn't quite complete, but there was still time. Just a little time.

...

Ethan had a condo. Ethan had a new truck with a stereo system that could startle the next solar system. Ethan had a prestigious job and lots of money.

What Ethan didn't have was a girlfriend.

It was an interesting state for him to be in. He nearly always had one girlfriend or another. He enjoyed falling in love, every time it happened it was warm and special and new. He remembered when he first met Tara, felt the heady and welcome sensation in his gut, and knew he was falling in love with her.

Ethan was a determined courter. And when Tara had finally told him that he was barking up the wrong tree, he had immediately shunted all that love into the 'sister' category and it never bothered him again.

When did it all change?

That day. That infernal day when he first saw the picture of grossly-beaten Willow Rosenberg. He had looked upon the white-haired comatose girl and something in him knew that his dedicated and golden nurse was going to fall for her. It was almost enough to keep him from accepting the girl.

Almost.

Why did it come down to the money? If Ethan had known, truly known, what was going to happen, would he have taken her? No, not for all the money in the world.

That fateful day, Ethan had looked at Tara, and seen her as if for the first time. Her soft brown hair falling to her shoulders. Her blinking and inquisitive blue eyes. Her shy smile. He knew it was useless, he knew it was wrong, he knew it would only lead to heartache, but as Tara looked at Willow's photograph, the 'sister' category was obliterated. He was a man in love.

Ethan sat on the balcony of his condo, the bright sunshine of the gorgeously hot Sunday afternoon baking into his skin. He drank a tall glass of lemonade, generously spiked with vodka, and thought about it.

It was all Willow's fault. Tara's demon carved chest. The unwelcome houseguest in her mind. The way she was constantly in pain, fainting dead away. And now, Ethan had the distinctly unpleasant honour of subjecting his favourite nurse to a battery of tests to discover exactly what had gone wrong.

Even as he began to get a pleasant buzz on, Ethan did understand. The vodka made a nice buffer for the truth, a precious fictional wall. It wasn't really Willow's fault. And as blissfully melancholy as self-flagellation would be for a man so foiled in love, he knew it wasn't his fault either, even though he could have stopped it all.

Apparently it really was Tara's duty to save the world. If she could survive long enough to do it. The real enemy? An elusive power, centered in a preacher named Caleb, the same Caleb burrowing a hidey-hole for himself in Tara's brain.

Ethan knew there wasn't enough alcohol in the world to dull the pain that the morrow would bring, when it would be Tara laying on the cold CT table, subjecting herself to invisible rays. There, in the impossible sunlight of a Sunday afternoon, Ethan shivered. Time for the wall, Ethan. You're a doctor tomorrow.

...

Donny sat on the porch, a warm beer in his hands. It had started cold, when he had first taken it from the clanking and ancient fridge in the basement, where they always kept extra soda. He had brought it outdoors, away from the disapproving eyes of his father, to sit on the porch and enjoy what was left of a purely beautiful Sunday afternoon. His father was sleeping, as was his habit on a Sunday afternoon. A working man deserves a nap, he would always say.

Donny got out of the house before the shrieking began.

The beer was open, but remained untasted. He should have gotten farther away. Maybe as far as the willow tree by the dugout, where an ancient wagon wheel lay quietly mouldering in the dusty farmyard. He shook his head. He never went there anymore. Not since his golden-haired mother sat there and spilled out an entire world he never realized existed.

"He was different, Donny," she had explained to him, as he wondered whatever had brought his father and his mother together.

"Then why do we stay?" he pleaded. She must have known, even in her exile for the demon within her, she must have known about his fists, his words. She must have known that he himself would eventually turn tormentor, absorb the terrifying lessons of his father, become a sadist, an evil-doer, just like him.

It was hot. He should have enjoyed the beer while it was cold. And another, and another, until this day, like so many others, was merely a blur.

The first shriek came from the house, and Donny flinched, spilling some of the warm amber liquid on his thigh. Looking at the wet spot brought back horrifying memories

 _(of boys that were so terrified of their father that warm piss dribbled down their legs, the warmth a presage to the madness to come, for that involuntary act would provoke yet another)_

that he swiftly locked away. There were millions of boxes of them, all tucked away in his mind. Tara used the boxes for pain. Donny used them for memories.

His father's dreams were bad. What horrors could he possibly be reliving? What strange indoctrination could be occurring in the old farmhouse on a Sunday afternoon? Donny thought about the blood he saw on his father's clothes, the rumours he heard in town about the missing girl, and he wondered, just how fast could he run to get away?

And where would he go? Was there anyone in the world who cared about him?

Just one. Tara. And she would have nothing to do with him, not after how he treated her the last time he saw her.

How he wished he could take it all back. How he wished he could get out from under his father's thumb. How he wished it could all be different. Was there anything he could do to get his sister back?

He listened to his father yell, and an idea dawned on him. Thinking carefully, he downed the rest of his warm beer.

He could do it. For Tara.

...

It was Sunday afternoon, and deliciously hot. Tara was exhausted, but deliriously happy. She and Willow had just returned from yet another shopping spree, and her kitchen and living room were festooned with bags of clothing, groceries, and computer equipment. Willow had just changed into a new outfit: short black shorts and a white tank top with a lopsided pink flower on it. Tara couldn't keep her eyes off her.

Willow shone. She was radiant. She was glowing. And Tara knew it wasn't because she had been gifted of the gods. It was because she was Willow. She wasn't just some mega-witch with the powers of the universe at her fingertips, she was the quirky girl who went into transports over seeing a Durian at the farmers market.

"It's so spiky," she had said, fingering the unusual fruit that was nearly the size of a basketball. "And stinky!"

"It's supposed to be a delicacy," Tara responded. "Apparently primates are very fond of them."

The girl behind the stall was a pleasantly plump girl of about sixteen, and she had laughed at the both of them. "It'd make a terrific weapon," Willow said, touching the spines again. Tara laughed out loud. Trust Willow to think of using a Durian against the forces of darkness. "I'm serious, Tara," Willow said, her eyes sparkling. "Just put it on a stick and you'd have a mace!"

"I thought a mace hung at the end of a chain," Tara said.

"Nope, that's a morningstar," replied Willow, all Scooby-ish. "People often mix up the two."

And even though they had been in the midst of the busy market, and it was hot, and she was probably sweating and icky, Tara leaned over and kissed Willow, amazed that such a bright star had landed in her dull life.

"What'cha thinking about, baby?" Willow asked, bringing Tara out of her recollection. She sat Tara down on one of the stools and busied herself with putting away the groceries, shooshing Tara down again when she tried to get up to help.

"You can't see what I'm thinking?" Tara replied softly. She almost wished she hadn't said it, she didn't mean to bring up how much more powerful a witch Willow was. A desperate, mean part of her voiced that she should have been gifted, too. Hadn't she proved herself?

Willow came right up to her, her red hair gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. She touched her softly on the hand. "I'd never look without asking," Willow said softly. "Tara, I never would."

"I was thinking about the Durian," Tara replied, squashing that mean little voice. Willow winked at her and went back to work, occasionally holding something up for Tara to point at a specific cupboard.

"The girl was a Slayer," Willow said as she put away a box of Corn Flakes. She didn't look at Tara.

"What?" Tara spluttered. "A Slayer?"

"I could feel her," Willow said, her back to Tara, and her hand paused in the act of closing the cupboard door. Tara could hear something in Willow's voice, a slight breaking. Tara stood up and walked over to Willow, and put her arm over Willow's shoulder. Willow instantly burrowed into Tara, nestling her head in the hollow of Tara's shoulder. Tara put her arms around her, and felt as much as heard Willow say, "That's what I did, Tara. That's what Buffy and the others died to do. Make Slayers."

Tara didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything. She merely held her girl to her. Willow finally spoke again, lifting her head to look at Tara, her green eyes suddenly smouldering. "I couldn't imagine going through this without you," she said softly. Willow licked her lips and stared hard at Tara's mouth, her eyes flinty. Tara had a sudden desire to pin her against the wall and ravage her.

Instead, the whole world spun crazily around her, and she staggered in Willow's grip, closing her eyes against the funhouse dizziness. "Tara?" she heard from far away.

 _(Don't faint, don't faint, don't faint, please, god, don't let me faint!)_

"I need to sit," she said, her voice muzzy, her knees already buckling underneath her. Instead of falling with a crash on to the ground, she noticed herself hovering mere inches above the ground, still held tightly in Willow's embrace. "Are we floating?" she asked, her lips barely moving.

"Yes," said Willow, but then she said no more, as they slowly flew to the kitten-abraded couch, skimming over the laminate floor, and Tara felt safe and protected in Willow's arms. The world began to come into focus once more, and the great white wall of faint began to dissipate. For nearly an hour Willow cradled her on the couch, and Tara felt all the exhaustion and all the dizziness begin to fade.

She was lying on top of Willow; she half-turned to face her lover. Willow looked worried, and Tara hated to see that expression on her beloved face. Looking at her girl, their sweaty legs entwined on the couch, the red hair tucked behind Willow's ears, Tara felt her heart would burst.

With a low cry, Tara captured Willow's mouth, and plundered it. She felt Willow's hands moving; one hesitantly cupped her buttock as the other sank into her hair. Willow's mouth eagerly opened to her questing tongue, and Tara felt her whole soul slide into her.

All in all, it was an amazing Sunday afternoon.


	35. Lightning Rampant

**Chapter Thirty Five**

 **Lightning Rampant**

Later.

The sun was waltzing on her way to the horizon, drawing on a robe of flagrant reds, purples, and pinks, exuberantly kissing her best beloved waters. That moment there, on the horizon, as the ocean tossed wave after wave to the sinking sun, a chariot driven by storms rampaged across the sky, bringing a curtain of dark clouds and shattering lightning. The heat hadn't broken, not yet.

The bathroom door closed with a soft click, and Tara laid the letter down on the little table next to the bathtub. For long moments Tara stared at herself in the chipped bathroom mirror, at the thin scabbed lines running down her cheek, the faint yellowing of the healed black eye. Her face was shining with sweat – the Sunday afternoon had been insanely hot. Gusts of wind blew through the window screen, lifting and curling the curtains. It would be a doozy of a storm. She must remember to tell Willow where she kept the candles in case the power failed.

Tara carefully stripped off her shirt, then her bra. She swung the amulet so the spokes of the sun fell on her back, and then her fingers gently picked off the bandage covering her chest. Finally she laid her breasts bare. The three gashes delivered by the horrifying demon were inflamed and slightly puffy. They had finally closed, but the scabs were tenuous, and after the spokes of the amulet had pierced them several times she had gotten in the habit of covering them with bandages.

Willow-born hope flared in her heart.

She touched the gashes, then pressed a little harder, gasping at the hurt within. She turned to the old-fashioned clawed tub at the corner of the bathroom and turned the spout. Cool water gushed into the tub, and she peeled off the rest of her clothing and sat in the delicious water. Tara brought the amulet back around to her front, saw it hang pendulous between her breasts.

Willow was downstairs, setting up her new computer. They had been getting quite amorous on the couch earlier that day, but when Willow's questing hands once again encountered the vast barrier of the bandage over Tara's breasts, Willow stopped and asked questions. She didn't want to lend Tara false hope, she said, but she remembered seeing a particular spell.

Then to Tara's bemusement, Willow launched into an explanation of how she and Giles had created vast databases of all his books and she had them on half a dozen remote servers scattered across the country. She had the same wry smile on her face then as she had earlier when she mentioned making the Slayers, and Tara knew she was thinking of the lost Scoobies. When Tara revealed that she had no internet connection, Willow sheepishly explained that she would boost the signal from her Led Zepplin-loving neighbour, just until Monday!

Tara went willingly to a cool bath, leaving Willow to scour her sources for a spell. Tara looked at the gashes, and allowed a little bit of hope. No, Willow couldn't heal her with her mind. But now Willow was preparing a special paste, like an ointment

 _(a Willow-chutney)_

that should work on the gashes. She could do nothing for the endless pain that racked Tara's insides, the pain she had taken to heal Willow, but she was determined to fix this.

Tara liked to imagine it was so Willow could touch her breasts without worry. It was a good thought, and much better to dwell on than the other ones that vied for space in her overworked brain.

Try as she might, she could not stop thinking about tomorrow and the tests. She remembered her mother going for tests exactly like these, and that had really turned out less than ideal, hadn't it? Thinking of her mother, she looked at the letter, the one she had read dozens of times since Donny had given it to her, the same day he'd given her the black eye. Drying her hands on a towel, Tara picked up the slim envelope and withdrew the letter. Skimming quickly through different sections, Tara finally stopped at the ones which now concerned her...  
 _  
As you well know, I've been a practicing healer my entire life. This power has been handed down through the generations through the matriarchal line. One of your daughters will carry it. Provided, of course, that you and your wife choose to have children. I am far too close to death to harangue you about giving me grandchildren, seeing as I won't be able to bake them cookies and tell them embarrassing stories about your childhood, but I still want you to consider it. There. Enough said._

Tara stopped her reading long enough to smile. Her mother would have loved Willow. Dipping her legs under the cool water, hearing the distant rumble of thunder that relentlessly pursued the sinking sun, Tara kept reading, skimming to the next part she wanted to revisit...  
 _  
Of the pantheon of the gods she is the closest to my heart, but I've never spoken of her to you. Her choice. Her name is Aranaea... I had my first visitation with her when I was pregnant with you... She was intrigued by you; she put her hands on my belly and lowered her head as if to listen to you._

 _But then she got sad, and sat back on her knees. "I need this girl to be strong," she said..._

 _And she cried then, Tara, tears of that white god-light, and she said, "We will allow every horror, every calamity, every catastrophe that this wicked world has to offer, we will allow them to fall upon her, and hurt her, and curse her." The girl scrambled across the ground to sit next to me, to stroke my shocked face with her fingers, and to clutch at my hands with fierce desperation. "And this we will do," she continued in a low, hurt voice, "because we need her to have enough power to save the world."_

 _"My little girl is going to save the world?" I asked. "You can see that far into the future?"_

 _"I can see all futures," she replied..._

Tara skipped to the end of the letter, then, as the middle was almost too hard to read. But there, at the end, she could almost hear her mother's voice say the words...  
 _  
Darling, will you ever forgive me?_

 _You are such a good girl, such a lovely woman, and I ache for the world-weary person I see behind your eyes. It was unbearable to me, to do this to you._ Aranaea _was with me every step of the way, she urged me to keep you from moving to Sunnydale (she actually told me you would die if you went to UC Sunnydale), and then she finally told me it still wasn't enough, you still didn't have enough power, and she gave me the cancer. I knew it would shatter you. But I was called upon to make my own sacrifice for this unknown person you need to heal, and I will give my life for it, and for you, and for this act you must accomplish in order to save the world._

 _Be strong, Tara. You are an amazing young woman. You are compassionate and filled with mercy and love. You are kind to everyone around you, not just your friends. You are sensitive and loving, smart and funny, and I know that someday you will find someone, a soul-mate, a woman to share your life and gifts with. You have so many talents and gifts, and I want you to make use of them all._

 _From the womb we have forged you, Tara, to be a warrior for good, a champion, a healer. The time of your all-important task is fast approaching. Greet it, and succeed in it, and you will save the_ world, _as you have already saved me. I'll be waiting for you in heaven._

Tara gently put the letter back in the envelope. She could hear the far rumblings of thunder outside her window. She sank into the water, thinking furiously, remembering when she first entered Willow's mind to see the goddess Aranaea, when she first heard of her incredible task...  
 _  
"I kept her alive, Tara, but it is up to you to save her."_

 _"Me?" Tara spluttered. "B-but you're..."_

 _Tara was going to say, "You're a goddess, why don't you do it?" but_ Aranaea _interrupted, saying once again, "The powers of the gods are limited to the power of the vessel. I have no power here. You do."_

Tara never really believed that she had power. Next to Willow _(the Kraken)_ , she certainly was a drifting mite in the vast sea of modern wizardry. But then hadn't Aranaea and Althanea both told her otherwise?  
 _  
"Tara," Althanea said, and Tara lifted her eyes to meet those of her guest. "I know you want to minimize Willow's pain, especially as she has suffered so much. But to trivialize what you have done, what this girl has done to you, that's wrong." Tara watched as Althanea's hand came to her neck and pulled out the amulet from underneath her scrubs, and she winced as she did so. There was blood on the spokes again. "Tara, there can be no inequality here. No lies. Only truth. You keep hiding things from Willow, it will only lead to disaster."_

 _"I can't make her remember," Tara finally admitted._

 _"Unless I'm completely mistaken about your family's abilities, yes, you can,"_ Althanea _replied, gently. "I have very limited gifts of the mind. You, on the other hand, have access to every mind trick available. Sending people to sleep, making people forget things, planting false memories, every single facet of unconsciousness is the realm of your particular gifts. Had your mother never taught you these things?"_

No, her mother hadn't. But, unconsciously perhaps, Willow had. Willow had been gifted...  
 _  
"Willow, I am the goddess Aranaea. You freed me from exile. To you I grant the gift of psionics, and every power of the mind that comes with it, including telekinesis, and telepathy."_

But hadn't Tara been born with these self-same things? What had her mother said?  
 _  
"This power has been handed down through the generations through the matriarchal line."_

This power. Aranaea's power. The powers of the mind. Psychokinesis. Mind over matter

 _(if you don't mind, it doesn't matter!)_

and could it be possible that such gifts were already hers? Sitting in the tub of cooling water, Tara felt a rush of shivers overtake her skin that had nothing to do with the wind now billowing through the open window, ruffling the curtains. Across the room, hidden behind the toilet, was a plunger. Tara looked at it, and with a clear voice she commanded, "Come."

Nothing happened.

Tara screwed up her eyes, and concentrated harder, like she did when she first encountered Caleb's wall. "Come," she ordered.

Still nothing.

Tara sat back in her tub, her chest aching, and she was confused. For a second there, it had seemed so close, so right. It made sense to her that these gifts should be hers. Hadn't they been born in her? Hadn't she nearly used them before? Why, before Willow came, she could do all manners of magics.

Wait a minute.

It came to her, then, and the truth reduced her to tears.

No. Freaking. Way.

She forced herself to think back, scouring her memories of the past week. Monday she prepared the spell and vanquished Caleb, and then she spent the day healing Willow. That night she first discovered the wall, and the reason why she couldn't use the animals any more. Tuesday she brought Willow out of her coma. Wednesday through Friday were quiet days with Willow in the hospice, with Tara fainting, finally choosing to sleep with Willow. Yesterday and today in the marketplace. Had she used her magic at all in those days? Even just once?

No.

Was it Caleb that was blocking her, as he relentlessly dug a hole in her mind? Or was it the amulet?

 _(My gift to you, little girl, you will find soon.)_

Near frantic, Tara then tried the most basic of spells, to float one of her tea lights. Nothing happened. She tried to produce fairy light. Nothing. Her attempt at a glamour met the same keen end. One by one she called on the gods, begging them to acknowledge her spells, and one by one she fell yet deeper in despair. What good was she to Willow now? How on earth could she possibly aid in this fight?

What more would the gods demand of her?

And Thespia's whisper to her, the day she was drawn into the ether, now became clear.

 _(There is more yet that you must sacrifice, Tara.)_

Was it not enough that she would be a lamb? Would she be similarly trussed up, bleating and helpless? Forced to look into the face of her lover as her life was ended, far too early?

 _(I am close, Tara.)_

It was too much to be borne alone. All her life she suffered in stoic silence, wrapping her dignity about her like a cloak, glorying in the pain. Hadn't she always needed it? And when her patients died, and they always tasted so sweet before death, didn't they Tara, they would be drawn away with the heaven-threads, leaving her as the dark one to the left, for the tunnel, the purple, was never for her. Her pain would not end, it would never end, not until the moment her greatest love reaved her in two.

Could the heaven threads possibly sustain her then? Could they still be so sweet?

Not after Willow. For Willow was the honey, and the heaven threads would be vinegar to her. No heavenly delight could compare with the feeling of Willow's warm skin against hers, her slender body tucked up so achingly close, her warm lips the gateway to her soul. And once Tara walked that pathway, waltzing into the confines of Willow's heart, tattooed there so exquisitely, heaven could hold no glory for her.

Yet it was her duty. Would her mother have sacrificed her own life in vain?

 _(But I was called upon to make my own sacrifice for this unknown person you need to heal, and I will give my life for it, and for you, and for this act you must accomplish in order to save the world.)_

And Tara thought of Buffy, and Giles, and Xander, and all the Slayers, whose sacrifice was still unknown, their lives unlauded, snuffed out without memory. She knew, oh Tara knew, that her sacrifice would be the same. After the fateful day when Willow would spill every drop of her blood, the sun would still rise, the birds would still sing, and the world would still go on its merry way, unaware that she had just saved them all.

Was it enough, Tara?

Would there be enough time between now and that fateful day? Althanea thought so. They had time, yet, a little time. The amulet was whole, and her body was slowly recovering from taking all of Willow's pain. She could have years, maybe even a decade. She could spend every minute of it with Willow, and she could still dare to dream of a farmhouse, and horses, and children with red hair and blue eyes.

 _(for the love of this woman, you will surely die.)_

There was a sharp slash of pain through Tara's head, a fierce yowling, as Caleb sought to remind her, and teach her her rightful place.

And the taste of it in her mouth was bitter, bitter.

Her head aching, her eyes burning with unshed tears, her chest stinging as she drew the rough towel over her body, Tara fought to control herself. The water drained, and the thunder was closer, and Tara could hear laughter and merriment from her neighbour's house. Could the world truly be so mundane?

Trembling, Tara pulled on a tank top and a pair of boxer shorts. The amulet was heavy on her. She drew a comb through her wet hair, and it hung heavy upon her shoulders. She stumbled into her bedroom; it was dark and felt muggy and still. She wanted to go down the stairs, to have Willow take her in her arms, to taste Willow on her tongue and banish the bitterness of her ruminations. Yet she found herself undeniably exhausted; she could go no further than her bed, and she sat heavily on the thin coverlet, clutching her mother's letter.

Willow.

She wanted to call out, to reach with her mind, but if Willow could not hear her, it would shatter her already fragile nerves. Such a little thing, to call for someone, yet it froze her. The room was dark; she had not turned on the lamp. Light from the bathroom streamed into the room.

So she sat, and waited for Willow to appear. She sat, pain creaking along her bones, the heavy amulet pricking her demon-grooves. She sat, and wondered, how could it be possible for things to change so very fast?

Two weeks ago, Peter Whitney was alive.

So it was that Willow found her some ten minutes later, sitting quietly on the edge of her bed, looking through her windows to the storm-lashed sky. Lights flickered as the lightning drew close, and Tara felt the rumblings of thunder deep within her heart. She heard Willow climb the stairs; the house was old and creaked menacingly at times, and she could smell the pungent paste as her girlfriend entered the room.

Willow must have detected her heartache, for she immediately set down the bowl to kneel in front of Tara. "What's wrong, baby?" Willow softly asked, putting her hands on Tara's knees.

No matter how many times Willow called her baby, it made her shiver every single time. Where had this feeling been all her life? Why had it taken so long for her to find it? And would the gods really be so cruel as to take it away?

And Tara thought of the Seal, and blinked her eyes, and hung her head.

They needed no words. There was an impressive crack of thunder following a brilliant flash of light; the lightning rampant, it cast Willow's face into shadow. Willow didn't ask again, she could read Tara like a comfortable book. Instead, Willow used her soft hands to gently spread Tara's legs. Tara looked at Willow during this surprising movement; she could see overwhelming concern and raw heat in Willow's clear gaze. A hammer fist of desire struck her core, and she parted her lips slightly to breathe.

Willow was shuffling closer to her, still on her knees. She raised up on them, bringing her gaze almost level with Tara's. First her hands cupped Tara's face, her palms on her cheeks, her fingers lightly curled around the tips of Tara's ears. With her thumbs, Willow rubbed Tara's cheekbones, just under the puffy and reddened eyes. The softest of pulls drew Tara's mouth down, down, her lips pressing lightly against Willow's. No movement for some time, just another re-enactment of the world's warmest kiss.

The tenderness was too much for her. Never in her life had Tara known someone who could reduce her walls to such rubble so quickly

 _(On some level, you didn't want me to get it)_

clambering over the stones of her painful past, her wretched memories, the greatness of her task

 _(You didn't want me to fully understand your sacrifice)_

emerging on the other side intact to behold the quivering child, the drifting mite, the lonely soul within

 _(If I understood too much, I might have fallen in love with you)_

and not being shocked, or surprised, or even scared. There would be awe. There would be love.

 _(There would have been joy, Tara)_

Tears began to seep from her beleaguered eyes; they tracked down her cheek to their conjoined lips, and as Willow's mouth finally moved away, Tara could feel the moisture on her lips, and taste the salt on her tongue.

Willow's hands left her face; she pulled away oh so slightly, then her hot fingers gently pressed Tara's head forward to lie in that comfortable niche of Willow's neck. Tara could smell sandalwood and roses on Willow's skin. Her eyes closed, Tara felt Willow wrap her arms about her, her soft hands ducking under Tara's tank top in the back and pulling her forward. Tara's breasts pressed tightly against Willow's; she knew the amulet was pricking them both through the thin fabric. She responded in kind, and wrapped her arms about her love, clutched at her in near desperation.

More tears, achingly released, carved slow trails down Tara's face. She could barely swallow over the lump of despair in her throat. Yet even as she mourned the loss of her magical gifts, however they had been taken from her, she could feel undeniable stirring in her gut. It was almost like physical hunger, this void that ate her from within...

 _(once you are empty, be careful of what you put back in.)_

The pain had hollowed her, had sanctified her, and left her empty and ready for love. Now as Willow began to kiss her neck, her hands fluttering to the base of Tara's shirt to stroke her waist, Tara could practically feel her soul move over to make way for Willow's soul, as if she could take a part of Willow inside her forever. She could feel Willow's hot breath on her neck and shivers ran down her spine. The thunder crashed about them, but it was nothing compared to the frantic beating of their hearts.

Just. There.

Tara lifted her head from Willow's neck and tilted it back; Willow used the opportunity to gently nibble and lick Tara's collarbone, planting kiss after kiss on Tara's throat. Tara leaned back slightly and thrust her breasts forward; Willow's hands on her back supported her with surprising strength as Willow's kisses journeyed deeper and deeper down her chest. There was a singularly powerful flash of light and a hollow boom and all the lights down the street flickered off, along with the light from the bathroom.

The sun was failing, the darkness not quite complete. Between the ambient light of the storm-lashed sky and the near continuous strikes of lightning, Tara opened her eyes once more. In the darkness the soft red hair of her girlfriend looked dark, and still Willow's lips continued to suck and kiss her sternum, drawing ever closer to the aching grooves.

 _(demon fodder)_

There was no shame now. For once the darkness was an ally. Now, maybe now Tara could let Willow see, really see what the demon had done to her. The dark was her privacy, her shield, her protection.

 _(you lived your life in shadow, never the sun on your face)_

Tara had been hoping and dreading this moment, the moment when Willow would look at her breasts for the first time. Would she be scared? Disgusted? Overjoyed?

Willow's lips were the great teacher. The devotion was unmistakable. Never, never had anyone

 _(Oh!)_

Willow's hot hands had traveled from her back to her sides, her fingers still gripping Tara's shoulder blades, holding her upright, her thumbs now on Tara's ribs underneath her tank top, skirting the soft mounds of Tara's gift.

A pause, and Tara lifted her head back up so she could meet Willow's eyes. By rampant lightning Tara could see that Willow's pupils were hugely dilated, whether by the lack of light or by raging desire, Tara could not tell. There were high points of colour in Willow's cheeks, almost a blush.

"May I?" Willow asked softly, her fingers moving to grip the edges of Tara's tank top.

This is it, Tara.

Why was there no more fear?

Tara nodded, deliberate and clear, and Willow, still raised on her knees, pulled Tara's tank top up, up, and over. Tara could almost feel her skin glowing in the darkness of the room, lit only by the frequent lightnings. If it had been day, or if there had been lamp-light, Tara most likely would still have said no. But it was dark, and it was safe, and it was Willow.

And Willow beheld her for the first time, the paleness of her breasts, the darkness of her nipples, the concert of slashes between them and the amulet lying like a cherry on top. Softly biting her lower lip in worry, Tara watched Willow's reaction.

For a long moment Willow simply stared at her breasts; her jaw slackened and her mouth opened. Willow licked her lips, and finally looked back up at Tara.

Just. There.

Willow was unhinged, broken. Two emotions warred on her face; sadness clashed with desire. She made as if to speak, but no words emerged. There was a sudden humming again; the street lights and bathroom light turned on as the power came back. Willow immediately shut her eyes and waved her hand; the light switch flicked off, plunging Tara's bedroom back into warm darkness. Only then did Willow open her eyes again, and Tara's heart melted for the devotion this girl showed her. Yet in that flash of light, and to her unending shock and near-horror, Tara realized that Willow was close to tears.

"No, sweetie," Tara protested, but she was cut off as Willow kissed Tara again, a long and lingering kiss that warmed Tara's very soul. Once again, Tara was swept away by the force of Willow's devotion to her; she was embraced again, even tighter this time, as if Willow meant to consume her. Breaking the kiss, Willow now tucked her face near Tara's neck and ear; Tara could feel moisture from Willow's tears as her soft hair caressed Tara's bare shoulder.

"How is it possible, Tara," Willow softly enquired, her mouth brushing the lobe of Tara's ear, "that I deserve you?"

An explosion of joy, somewhere near her heart.

Willow's voice was faltering, thick with emotion. "How is it possible that you did all this for me?"

Tara opened and closed her mouth, her heart beating in exultation.

Soft. "How is it possible that I can love you so much?"

Tara couldn't find the words to console her. Her mind was fogged, she was feeling almost faint with too great emotion. In response she held Willow even tighter, her senses swimming, a flood of desire raging through her.

And in that movement, she felt a rip by one of the spokes of the amulet, and pain lanced her chest. Her gasp seemed to bring Willow back to her senses; her girlfriend leaned back again, yet kept her fingers laced behind Tara's waist. "Let's fix this, shall we?" Willow whispered, glancing down at Tara's chest, then back again to her face.

Tara nodded; she swallowed, then spoke. "How does it work?" she asked, motioning to the bowl on the floor. Lightning flashed, and Tara saw the concoction, thinner than paste yet thicker than a mere broth.

 _(Willow-chutney)_

"I say an incantation as I put the salve on, then we just leave it for the night. I should warn you, Tara, that it says it's going to hurt. A lot. And it's going to make you very tired."

For a moment, Tara wanted nothing of it. She knew, by the pooling of warmth in her panties, by the blazing eyes of her girlfriend, that tonight would have been the night. Exactly a week since she fled from Aranaea and her task, and found herself at the bedside of this remarkable woman, vowing to do everything she could to save her. She hadn't a clue back then, of how sweet it could be. The hint of something more, the consummation, the act; it hung between the two of them now, so close to fulfillment.

Yet as bewitching an idea of Willow making love to her was, the harsh reality of the demon grooves stood in their way. Maybe not for much longer. Maybe this would work, oh gods let this work!

Willow was gazing intently at her. It was decided.

Tara nodded, and Willow's hands slid along her bare stomach before disengaging to grasp the bowl. The mixture smelled pungent, and she could not tell the colour in the darkness of the room, even with the lightnings that were fleeing farther away.

"Lay yourself down," Willow said, averting her eyes slightly as Tara shimmied to the top of the bed, swinging the amulet to lay on her back. She could feel the spokes of the amulet under one shoulder blade. Her hair was damp on her pillow.

Willow then took a closer look at the wounds Tara had never allowed her to see, and her face constricted again in a range of emotions. She looked up at Tara and smiled warmly, then two fingers dipped into the salve and she took a generous amount on her fingertips. With infinite care, she laid the salve on one of the gashes, muttering in a foreign language. Instantly Tara felt a sharp pain, almost as bad as when the demon had first slashed her. She grit her teeth and Willow continued to mutter and apply the paste.

Finally it was over; her chest was stinging ferociously and waves of exhaustion rolled over her. She wanted to say something to Willow, she wanted to thank her, but the great purple curtain of sleep was drawing fast. Just before sleep claimed her, she felt the comforting warmth of Willow's body spooning up behind her, realizing with her final thought that Willow had also taken off her shirt, as she felt the heat of Willow's bare breasts press against her back.

And the ocean waited for the storm to pass, and for the sun to be reborn.


	36. Jertfa

**Chapter Thirty Six**

 **Jertfa**

Willow wasn't sure what woke her. It was late; almost four in the morning. The heat had broken in the night and Willow had pulled a sheet over herself and her sleeping lover. Blinking, she looked at the slender form in her arms, the sheet rising and falling with Tara's breath. One hand was on Tara's stomach; her crooked arm perilously close to Tara's breast. She desperately wanted to peek and see if the salve was working, but didn't dare violate Tara's privacy while she was sleeping. She could wait until morning, and then see.

She settled back into her pillow, nuzzling Tara's bare shoulder. Willow loved Tara's skin. It was clear and smooth and in all respects delightful. The crinkle of her eyes as she smiled, the tightening of her jaw when she was in pain, the shivering ripple that cascaded as Willow touched her just there...

How was it possible that she could fall in love so quickly? In many respects, Willow felt like she'd always been waiting for Tara. There was a special little section of her heart with a place card saying "Reserved", just waiting for that moment that Tara swept into her life. And once she did, Willow had no more fear or shame; loving Tara came as naturally to her as breathing, as magic.

Now there was fear. Fear of losing her. In the bright light of day it was easier for Willow to be all stiff-upper-lippy; confident and outspoken in the face of evil. But in the dark of night, demons wandered the ghostly corridors of Willow's mind, seeking out her weaknesses. At night Willow's oft overactive mind would conjure a million deaths for her brown-haired lover, moments when she would arrive just seconds late. What would this tawdry world hold for her then?

Intolerable. Willow planted a soft kiss on Tara's bare shoulder, tucked her body even closer, thinking dark thoughts until sleep claimed her.

Between one breath and the next, Willow dreamed.

And found herself in the graveyard in the dark hours of night. She was standing in front of a large mausoleum, one she didn't recognize. Standing there on the marble steps leading into the vast building was Faith. Willow strode slowly up to her; Faith had a small trickle of blood falling from her lip down her chin. Willow noticed Faith's favourite knife thrust in her belly, just the way Buffy had once stabbed her. Faith looked down on it as well, as if surprised to see it jutting from her.

"Faith?" Willow asked tremulously.

"It's the name of the game, Red," Faith said, pointing with a finger to a single word imprinted on the door above the mausoleum. Willow looked up, compelled.

Jertfa.

"But what does it mean?" she asked. But Faith had vanished. Willow opened the doors and a whiff of celestial flowers emerged; a far cry from most mausoleums or crypts she had visited in life. The building was even larger than she first had imagined; there were three wings, but only one was lit. She passed through an atrium where grew an enormous Willow tree then entered an echoing hallway filled with the dead.

On gleaming marble slabs rested the bodies of her friends and loved ones, their names neatly inscribed into the stone. Jessie was there, and she saw the puncture wounds on his neck. Jenny Calendar was there as well, and Willow's throat clogged up when she saw her favourite teacher. Yet right next to her was Angel, stick pricked with the sword that Buffy had to thrust through his side. Her eyes slid past Harmony and other students butchered during graduation. Ben was there, but Glory wasn't.

Willow marched on, aching sorrow building within her, knowing what was coming next. And there they were. Little Dawnie, and Anya. Caridad and Rona. Vi and Eve and a dozen more Slayers, cut down just as they came into their own.

 _(That's what I did, Tara. That's what Buffy and the others died to do. Make Slayers.)_

Wait. Three slabs here were empty. Willow looked at the names, her eyes pricking with tears. Xander Harris. Rupert Giles. Buffy Summers.

Sound from the far end of the mausoleum, and Willow hoped it was a vampire, a demon, anything with blood that she could spill as penance for her living while these all lay dead. The door opened, and through it came Giles and Xander, bearing a new marble slab between them. They didn't look up or speak as they set down the tomb. Willow rushed up to them, knowing she was dreaming, yet still drinking in their faces, delighted to see them again, even if only like this.

A choral hum, from dozens, maybe hundreds of hushed voices. She couldn't see who they belonged to. Staring fiercely at the door, Willow waited. Finally the door opened again, soundlessly, as if by magic, and Buffy walked through, cradling Tara's body in her strong arms. One of Tara's hands fell lifeless by her side, jolted by Buffy's slow and even steps.

Willow knew who the empty tomb was for, even as she finally began to weep.

Xander and Giles bowed as Buffy passed by them, carrying the last best hope of the world. Willow fell on her knees before the empty tomb, watched through stinging eyes as Buffy tenderly laid Tara's body on the cold marble slab, crossing Tara's arms over her chest, pooling Tara's hair to one side. Willow saw Buffy bow to Tara as well before retreating from the still form to kneel next to Willow on the floor. The unseen choir hushed, then faded away entirely.

"The choice was yours, and no one else's," Buffy whispered.

"How can it be possible?" Willow sobbed. "I love her."

"Could she be in better company?" Buffy asked. "We can care for her here, for she is one of us."

 _(Jertfa)_

"You can have any prize you desire," Buffy continued. "Remember, you are very young. When the time comes, what will you choose?"

 _Flash. Tara's creamy throat. Sheen of sweat. Lips are open. A cry. Eyes are closed. Breasts are heaving, taut, hard, erect. Mine. All mine._

"It's never been my choice!" Willow cried out. "Do you think I would choose this? For me to live while you are dead?"

 _Flash. Tongue thrusting. Panting. Moonlight on skin. Tara's skin. Head flings back, hair pools. Eyes open, pupils dilated. A cry, "Willow!" Fingers questing._

"I hurt myself, Willow," Buffy explained. "My choice. Don't presume to choose for me. Don't presume to choose for her." She gestured to the newest body in the Jertfa mausoleum.

 _Flash. Lower. Hotter. Sheen of sweat. Wiry curls. Softness like a rose petal. Slick. An opening, so very small but holds the universe within. A cry. Almost there._

Willow was assaulted by latent desire, an image juxtaposed in front of her. Tara dead. Tara alive, and hot, and wet. Tara dead. Tara alive, and close, so very close.

"When the time comes, Willow, will you let her choose?"

 _(Jertfa)_

My heart burns.

And the unseen choir emerged. Willow recognized a few of the faces as some of the doctors and nurses from the hospice, but most were unfamiliar to her. Softly they walked up to the tomb bearing Tara, the light of the world, and then they laid gifts about her. Small, large, gaudily and expertly wrapped, each person came with a gift, a whispered phrase, a touch on the still and cold skin. Then they would vanish back out of sight.

The mound of gifts grew. Buffy held Willow's hand. Lastly came the triumvirate; Thespia, Maia, and Aranaea. As they bowed to her love, and laid their gifts by her, Willow trembled.

A cold draught, the scent of celestial flowers fading, rotting. A smog, eddying and curling about his pristine shoes. The white spot at his throat was cloying, false sweetness, false hope. The gift he bore was black, and all Willow wished was to tear his throat out where he stood.

 _Flash. Scythe immaculate. Moonlight sharp. Pine resin. Stone Mountain. A goat's head. Cordial of blood. Sweet on the tongue. Succulent flesh. Doubly sweet. Night forever._

Yet she was held in stasis, her voice similarly locked. Caleb looked neither right nor left as he approached Tara with his malevolent gift in his hands. He set it by her, stroked her cheek with one pale finger, then looked straight at Willow.

"It is said that even the powerful die," he said, all friendly-like.

"And the meek shall inherit the earth," responded Buffy.

 _Flash. A durian. Tea. Kitten-abraded couch. Floating. Tara's creamy throat. Lips are open. Eyes are closed. Tongues thrusting, fingers questing. The answer._

It was Tara. It was always Tara.

Willow was Serenity Incarnate. Willow was Divinity Immaculate.

Willow was pissed.

And Caleb took one look at her blazing eyes, and he immolated from within, and the power of Willow's love reduced him to ash, and he was borne away on the wind.

"I love her," Willow said, looking at Buffy.

"Is this where you intended to be?" Buffy asked.

"How else do I keep the dream alive?" Willow responded.

Willow stood then, and walked through the ashy remnants of the long preacher, approaching the cool marble slab upon which laid the light of the world.

 _(Can I be any use to you now, Willow?)_

 _(JERTFA)_

No more words.

Willow touched the cold skin, ran her fingers through Tara's, entwining their hands. With her other hand she caressed Tara's hair. She bent over and kissed cold lips, and it wasn't about desire, or hunger, or lust. The kiss was a key to a lock, a lock never opened before, stiff and rusty with time.

Yet underneath her lips Willow could actually feel the warmth returning. And after long moments, when she finally lifted her face, Tara's bellflower eyes were open, and crinkled in a smile. Her beloved form sat up, swung her legs from off the tomb, and caught Willow in a rough embrace.

"I made my choice long ago," Tara whispered, her lips brushing Willow's ear lobe.

Then Tara took Willow's face in her soft hands, wiping Willow's tears with her thumbs, before placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, then on her mouth. Another, and another, and Willow tightened her grip on Tara's body, realizing with befuddled shock that she was no longer dreaming.

For she felt Tara's bare breasts against hers for the very first time, slightly crusty from the dried paste, and Tara's mouth was on hers, her tongue flicking against her lips, begging for access. Willow tilted her head, felt the pillow beneath her shift, and Tara dove inside her. Already the dream began to fade, but in the distance Willow could still feel the stab of agony she felt as Buffy bore Tara's lifeless body to the slab, and the unknown word rolled over and over again in her mind.

Jertfa.

...

 _A/N: From here, things get pretty exciting. Come back next week for three more chapters!_


	37. Amplify

**Chapter Thirty Seven**

 **Amplify**

 _(Oh, no, Willow, this is not the end. This is only the beginning.)_

Tara had pulled on a t-shirt and gotten up to use the washroom. Willow put her hand over the warm space on the sheets where her girlfriend recently lay. She could smell the lingering scent of the salve on the sheets and on her fingers. Memories of Tara swirled through her mind, the unknown word _(jertfa)_ still troubling her, but in the thick and warm darkness of the early morning Willow brought other, more pleasant thoughts to her mind.

 _(If you wish it, I'll never leave you again.)_

Slim light spilled from underneath the bathroom door. Willow could hear the water running and she wondered, oh she wondered if her spell worked for her beloved. They had come so close, so very close to fulfilling something she could barely imagine, but those demon grooves stopped them every time. With so much pain in Tara's life that she could do nothing about, Willow hoped and prayed that this one thing had worked. There would be no more barriers, no more reason to stop. She could allow herself this, this pleasure in a world where so much had gone wrong.

 _(I saved the world, Tara, but not for me. Never for me.)_

But Tara had proved otherwise, hadn't she? Through her sacrifice, her devotion to her patient, Willow had come to realize that, though her friends were gone, she was still alive. And being alive was a very good thing. And more, Tara had shown that being alive was more than monster fighting, and slaying, and thwarting the forces of darkness time and again with no reward to show for it; being alive meant enjoying the simple things, like a durian in a marketplace, like a kiss on a couch, like the prospect of being with a beloved one forever. Who was this woman who had entered her life, and saved her in every single way imaginable?

 _(I'm the woman who's going to make you happier than you've ever been.)_

Willow could believe it. The attraction, the longing was undeniable. And this very night, when she pressed her own breasts against the bare back of her girlfriend, she knew she wanted to make love to her, to brand her own name on Tara's lips forever, to make her feel ecstasy and pleasure beyond anything she'd ever experienced before, enough to dull the pain that continually wracked her lover's body. Willow's pain, taken to save Willow.

 _(Just save me, Willow.)_

What Willow would have done to take Tara away from this world, Willow's world. Walking the mausoleum _(was it only an hour ago?)_ only reminded Willow of the terrible sacrifices she and her friends had made, time and again, without anyone knowing. She wanted to take Tara away from it all, and have no worry other than what to eat for dinner. It was impossible, now. The amulet chained Tara in far more ways than Willow could probably imagine, and Willow certainly didn't want Caleb to be a part of her life in any meaningful way.

 _(Just what does Tara mean to you, Willow?)_

Tara was no longer simply a woman, simply a nurse. Tara was Willow's new north star, her new sun. It was Tara who illuminated her way into the darkness of the forthcoming years, transformed that darkness into new light and new possibilities. It was Tara who would guide her through it all, that low infectious smile on her lips and three pale lines across her face. Monster grooves.

 _(I used to have a monster fighting team.)_

At this moment, more than any other, Willow was consumed with grief for her dead friends. How was she to save this precious woman without Buffy, without Xander and Giles? Giles always had the answers. He had his books, and his connections to the Council, and a great deal more savagery than she had once suspected could exist in a tweed-clad librarian. Xander was more than just the guy that got the donuts and fixed the furniture. He could see to the truth of things, could see into the heart of the matter, even only through one eye socket. And Buffy, dear Buffy. Never just a Slayer, though that was certainly handy. Buffy was courage incarnate; she never backed down from a fight, even when she was reduced to slinging burgers at the Doublemeat Palace. More than a Slayer – she was the first person to awaken Willow to a better, albeit more dangerous, life.

 _(It's a good fight, Buffy, and I want in.)_

Understanding pierced Willow, with an actual physical pain. It was all Buffy, again. Even from beyond the grave, Buffy and her sacrifice _(jertfa)_ is what brought Tara to her. Without Buffy, Willow would never have met Tara, and she would have gone on her merry little way eventually, battered, bruised, bereft, grieving for a loss she never could fully comprehend. There would have been a Tara-shaped emptiness in her life, and she never would have known it.

 _(Could she be in better company? We can care for her here, for she is one of us.)_

Willow was a witch. She knew what prophetic dreaming was. The Scoobies, they would accept Tara in death, just as they would in life. But not yet. In this, Willow was certain. No mausoleums, no marble slabs, no cold and lifeless hands, no cold lips, not yet not yet not yet.

She didn't even realize that she was weeping until Tara crawled back into bed beside her. Tara's anxious face filled her view, and she found herself aching for Tara's touch. Banish the ghosts, Tara. Banish the demons, banish the dreams. Please.

Why did they need no words?

Willow once wryly thought that there was no force on earth that could shut her babbling mouth. Until she met Tara. At first she kept quiet because she wanted to impress this enigmatic and mysterious nurse, and knew that random spouts of nonsense often erupted from her lips. Then she kept quiet because she realized that there was a wavelength between her and her brown-haired lover, a wavelength she never had experienced with Oz or anyone else. It was like a cord connecting them, eyes to eyes, heart to heart. No lies. No words. Only truth.

In the silken moonlight and streetlight, Tara's eyelashes seemed dipped in gold and stroked with shadow. The three lines down her face were thin and pale, in stark contrast to her luscious and full lips. Her eyes were roiling in joy, in playfulness, and those eyes alone drew Willow from the dark place she had been inhabiting, the mausoleum of her mind. Did the spell work, then?

"You mean?" Willow whispered, pointing to Tara's t-shirt covered chest.

For her answer, Tara gave her that low smile before sitting upright in the bed, the sheet pooling by her waist. Willow sat up as well, aware that the cold draught from the window was making her nipples stand at attention.

 _(You know better, Willow, you know what is really happening. You want her. With every fibre in your being, you want her. And your body knows it.)_

For a moment, Willow wondered if she should cover up, lift the sheet in some modicum of modesty. But then that moment ended, and another began, containing the universe within. As Willow watched Tara's fingers seductively pull up the edges of her shirt, slowly tugging the garment up and off her body, revealing impossible smoothness of skin, three long and thin pale lines between her breasts where only hours before Willow knew there were demon grooves, Willow was pierced again by understanding.

She was reborn.

Her old self was consumed in the ashes of Tara's love. Just like a phoenix, Willow stepped forth from those ashes, she was finally sated, she had dined long enough on the ashes to last a lifetime, there was better food now, now there was chocolate. Taraliscious. Tara bared her breasts to her, and in doing so she bared her soul, and there was space there for Willow. Willow could barely comprehend the hollowing that must have taken place, to make such room for her in Tara's very being. She only knew that she would never, could never be the same.

Tara bared her breasts to her, and her eyes looked on her with not just the benevolent love you'd expect from a nurse, from an angel, but the soul-consuming, body-wrenching, cataclysmic romantic love you desire for a lifetime and have never found before, not in anybody. Tara bared her breasts to her, and Willow knew what her new life would entail, now that she was reborn from the ashes.

 _(You didn't want me to fully understand your sacrifice. If I understood too much, I might have fallen in love with you. There would have been joy, Tara.)_

There would be love. Nights and days of it. She could make it her life's work to love Tara the way she deserved to be loved, and it would be the most worthy thing she'd ever done. No demon, no dilemma, no apocalypse could even be measured against it. Joy, peace, happiness, these things would be alien to her no longer. Before she died, Tara would know. Not just the pleasure of the most amazing sex she could imagine, and boy would Willow ever deliver, but more than that. Tara would know what it felt like to be the sole purpose and intention of Willow's life. That nothing, no nothing, would ever separate them again. No amulet, no Caleb, no jertfa mausoleum echoing with the prints of the dead.

Because she was in Tara, and Tara was in her. And did it really matter that Willow had come to this point so swiftly? Mere days it was, since she first met Tara in the coma world of Sunnydale. Willow was a seasoned fighter now, and death had come too close. No time to waste, not when you lived as a Scooby.

Tara bared her breasts to her, and Willow licked her lips and stared. The amulet had been swung to Tara's back again. With a soft hand, Tara lifted Willow's hand and placed it fully on the skin between her breasts, the skin that only hours ago had been puffy and inflamed. It was now clear, and smooth, and completely healed. Willow looked at her hand, nestled so gently between Tara's breasts, and with a finger she touched those scars, traced the length of them, noticing Tara's shiver.

"You did this for me," Tara whispered. "Now we can," and she paused long enough to push Willow's body back down on the soft bed, looming over her with ardent intensity, a desire Willow had never seen in anyone's eyes, not Oz, not anyone. "...do this," Tara completed, before kissing Willow, hard.

Oh. My.

Tara's lips were crushed on hers; Willow opened her mouth and Tara's lips tilted sideways, her tongue lightly ran over Willow's teeth before dipping inside. A gulf was emerging deep in her gut, as aching joy built deep inside. Because it wasn't just Tara's lips, it was Tara's hand, which was drawing slowly down from Willow's face, stroking her neck, running down and over her collarbone, then latching onto Willow's small breast, cupping it in her hand, then rolling the nipple lightly in her slender fingers.

Willow moaned into Tara's mouth; it felt like there was a live wire connected between her breast and her core, a wire that sparked her, and wetness pooled between her legs. Tara was kissing her, almost bruising her with her desire, and Tara's leg insinuated in between Willow's. Her foot slid between Willow's ankles, pushed them apart. Still her fingers played with her nipple, rolling and lightly pinching, each touch setting off a cacophony of nerves. Pierced with joy, wallowing in ecstasy, Willow wanted to touch Tara as she was being touched, but it seemed she lacked some essential motor function. All of her attention was on Tara's foot, Tara's hand, Tara's mouth.

Tara's mouth, which moved to kiss and suck at Willow's neck. Willow arched her neck back, opening her eyes briefly to see the ceiling and the top of the headboard, the prints Tara had placed on the wall. But she closed her eyes again, panting slightly as Tara began to kiss her neck. Willow jolted as Tara pressed her tongue into the hollow at the base of Willow's throat as she simultaneously kneaded Willow's breast.

"Please, Tara," Willow whispered, a torrent of wet desire running through her limbs. Tara lifted her head long enough to look Willow in the eyes; she gave a hot, searing glance, then shifted her body so she was laying more on top of Willow, her foot scraping lightly up Willow's calf, deliciously spreading Willow's legs. Willow could feel the fabric of their shorts underneath them both. Tara's head then dove down again to Willow's body, her hot mouth closing over Willow's nipple.

Oh. My.

Tara's other hand swiftly found a place at Willow's neglected breast. As her tongue rolled lightly over the sharp nub, her fingers alternately rolled and lightly pinched her other nipple. Willow gasped as Tara suckled at her, her other hand hot at her breast. Then Tara took the nipple in her teeth, and Willow felt the jolt deep inside her, deeper than ever, somewhere near her very soul. Willow ran her hands over Tara's back, touching the beloved skin, running over the amulet which had canted off to the side.

Unbelievable. Both of Tara's hands were now drawing slowly, languorously down Willow's sides, descending until they touched the elastic waist of Willow's shorts. And there they hovered, for Tara was asking a question, unspoken she was asking a question.

"Yes, oh please, Tara," Willow panted, and some part of her was keenly aware that this was the moment it would all change. This was the universe within. Her north star was about the shine the way for her, into a new life and new understanding.

So Tara drew down Willow's shorts and her panties, lifting them over Willow's pert ass, drawing them exquisitely down her legs and finally tossing them over the side of the bed.

My turn.

Willow grasped Tara's waist as she hovered just above Willow's body; she rose up enough to turn the tables, to push Tara down on the other side of the bed. Willow was afire; she wanted to feel Tara's skin on her, all of it. She looked into Tara's eyes as her fingers grasped the waist of Tara's shorts and Tara nodded, breathing heavily. There wasn't much seductress yet in Willow, but she knew she would learn, that Tara would teach her all sorts of things. So she pulled, over the roundness of Tara's buttocks, down her long and shapely legs, and the moonlight and streetlight splashed over Tara's chest, making her glow. Willow dropped the shorts over the side.

Immediately Tara wrapped herself on Willow's lean frame, her arms crushed tight around her, their breasts pressed together, her leg curling around Willow's leg possessively. Skin on skin, the whole length of her.

It was more exquisite than anything Willow could ever have dreamed. For days now she had been drowning in Tara's scent, had cherished every moment they spent together, from the hand-in-hand shopping to the kissing on the couch, and to have it all culminate in this moment was almost more than Willow could bear. But there really wasn't much space for thinking, not with her brain dealing with an overload of sensation never felt before.

So she drew her fingers over Tara's back, skirting the amulet that fell to the side, drawing her short nails down the fragrant skin, kissing whatever part of Tara happened to be close; her lips, her forehead, the crown of her head. On her back, Willow again felt Tara's foot sliding along the inside of her calves, gently pushing her legs apart. Tara's fingers were sliding down Willow's body, cupping a throbbing breast, skirting her belly button, drawing ever closer to the place Willow most wanted those fingers to be.

She was breathing heavily now, and thrusting her hips upward as Tara insinuated her thigh between her legs. Willow wrapped one leg about Tara's thigh, felt a circle of warmth and wet where Tara's core rubbed against her. Tara was moving back and forth, subtly, in gentle motions, that portion of her upper thigh rasping against her center. She lifted her head from Willow's breast, her eyes closed for a moment as she rose up, her breasts swinging with the movement of her hips, and the moonlight struck her back and cast her into partial shadow.

Willow looked at her then, and her own hands, which had been grasping the sheets or the pillows, her hands ventured up to caress those glorious breasts, nipples hardened into sharp little nubs. Willow had wanted to touch them for so long; she remembered their time under the willow tree when she was enthralled, her hands moving of their own accord, seeking, seeking the touch that would define her. Only to be thwarted, every time, by the inflamed demon grooves, those terrible wounds Tara had received for her.

Now to touch those breasts, and they were soft globes of perfection, and they were warm and entrancing and Willow wanted to not only touch them, but taste them, worship them, revere them with her lips and tongue. Tara's breasts were magical; they opened a space inside her, a space of pure love and intent, and Willow knew she would never be the same. They were Tara's gift, all for her.

So with delicate fingers, a delicate touch, Willow caressed Tara's breasts, ran her fingers over the impossibly smooth and creamy white skin, her thumbs running over her hard nipples. At this touch Tara opened her eyes, and Willow tore her gaze away from the breasts to communicate her gratitude to her girlfriend, to look at her in the eyes and thank her.

And Willow knew. Swimming behind Tara's eyes was a vast purple curtain, the word jertfa hovered just beyond, and there was a great and terrible shadow, stung in the center with a single point of light; the white spot at Caleb's collar. They were not two, they were three.

Willow saw herself as she must have been that day when Tara took it all, she took it, and she can't give it away, she took the broken skull, and the broken rib, the sword puncture wound and the inflamed scrapes and the vampire bite at her neck, she took it and she kept it and there it was and how could Willow have forgotten?

No more tears. Willow felt all this in a flash, and in that flash she vowed to fight, to give, to battle, and to love. Love like there is no preacher in her brain. Love like there is no medical test awaiting. Love like Tara deserved to be loved.

Tara may have stopped then, in that stark moment when Willow realized all this, she must have sensed Willow's slight hesitation, but then Willow rose up, just slightly, just enough to draw Tara's breast into her mouth, enough to cup Tara's bare buttocks with her hands and press her closer. At her electrifying touch on her nipples, warm wet lips suckling at her breast, Tara lifted her head and moaned, a deep guttural sound that resonated in Willow's depths, triggering yet another flood of warmth and wet to her core.

Willow released her suckling hold on Tara's breast only to move to the other, feeling Tara's thigh continue to grind against her core, rejoicing in hearing her lover pant. Her hands, moving up from Tara's ass, drew up the silky length of Tara's back and once again encountered the spokes of the amulet. Sharp grief stabbed her; she released her mouth hold on Tara's breast to pull Tara's body close once again, needing to feel the length and breadth of her, tucked in the spare corners of her heart and limbs.

Tara's hair tickled her shoulder; Willow grasped Tara's face between her soft hands, tilted it so she could nibble on her ear lobe, her heart burning in Tara's flames. Love expanded in her chest, exponentially, thick and deep and delicious, aching in her stomach, painful it was, lurching throughout her entire frame. "Tara," she whispered, her lips brushing Tara's ear, "I love you."

And Tara turned to face her, her eyes soft and vulnerable, her face constricting in great emotion. Then she gave a low cry and swooped for Willow's lips, bruising her with her need. There they latched, kissing each other slowly, deliciously, Tara's tongue dancing in her mouth. Tara then pulled away her thigh, wet with Willow's nectar. Just before Willow could complain, somehow, into Tara's mouth, she felt Tara's hand, not stopping at the soft curls, but descending, descending to the place that throbbed, that ached, that begged for release.

Tara's thumb barely stroked her clit, and Willow thrust her head back, breaking her incredible kiss, breathing in heavy gasps. Tara smiled, the moonlight glinting off her perfect teeth, a low and knowing smile that Willow caught only a glimpse of before her eyes rolled back again. She was vaguely aware that one of Tara's hands was kneading her breast, but all of her attention was focused on the other hand, the one with fingers that brushed her velvet opening, swirling around the silky depths. Another swoop over her clit, and Willow writhed underneath her. "Oh, Tara, please," she gasped, not really knowing what she wanted to ask, just wanting to be fulfilled, to be filled, to be brought to a place she rarely experienced.

"Please what, my love?" Tara asked, low by her ear, actually licking it with her tongue.

"I need you," Willow begged, and it was just enough, for two of Tara's fingers thrust easily inside her, reaching for a place that wasn't really physical; it was spiritual and emotional and metaphysical and easily not of this world or this plane, but part of that cord that connected them, the fingers tugged at the cord, made it stronger, fiercer, unbreakable adamantium, something that would exist far longer than this pitiful world. The fingers drove her, filled her, and with each thrust, Willow felt herself get closer and closer to something she could barely name.

Another smooth brush of her thumb over Willow's clit, and Willow's hips rose from the sheets, never displacing the fingers that continued to thrust, now a little harder, now a little faster. Her climax began to roar in her ears, and she gasped with a raw breath. She was almost too far to hear Tara's words, "Come for me now, Willow."

And the fingers inside her, they paused there at the top, and rasped against her slippery channel and vastly, mightily, Willow came. Arching her hips and crying out, her walls clenched against Tara's slick fingers. Tara continued to fill her, her fingers inside her a comfort now as Willow slowly returned to earth, riding the bucking contractions of her orgasm. Only long moments later, as she reigned in her breathing, exhausted with too little sleep and too much emotion, Willow clutched at Tara's body, pulled her in close, tucked her along her bare limbs as she tucked her by her heart. Consumed by love, thick and heady along her limbs, Willow wished she could fight off the sleep, but she'd never experienced anything like what Tara had just given her. The depth of it, the tender care, it suffused her muscles and left them viscous like honey. Fading rapidly, Willow felt Tara pull the sheet over them both, felt Tara's head on her shoulder, her hand possessively cup her breast.

And there. Her core still throbbing, the sleep overtaking her, she heard the whisper like a puff of breath against her breast. "And I love you."

Moonlight and streetlight spilled over them both, until the first lightening rays of dawn began to steal into the bedroom. It was Monday morning, and neither of them knew that their lives were about to be inextricably altered forever. It would be Ethan who would eventually reveal the calamitous nature of Caleb's gift. Althanea and Angel searched for a demon for Tara and for a knife and found instead a disquieting amount of Bringers, all blindly seeking for the girl. Faith, across the ocean, waking in the afternoon with Jude's slender body beside her, the scent of their love-making sweet in the air, had no idea that she would once again hold the scythe in her hands.

And Donnie waited.


	38. Caleb's Gift

**Chapter Thirty Eight**

 **Caleb's Gift**

Tara stood with bare feet on the back porch, the wood still damp from last night's thunderstorm. She had her eyes closed, seeking out the sun through her pink eyelids as thin clouds scuttled across the morning sky. The air smelled glorious, thick with pine resin and tinged with the sea that crashed relentlessly against Morro Rock. She smiled, glad once again of her decision to settle here in Los Osos.

She had woken before Willow this morning, woken by several painful jabs of headache that had since resolved into a low thrum. Willow woke as Tara got up and they exchanged some very pleasant good morning greetings. Tara had been a little anxious about Willow; she hadn't planned on making love to Willow last night, but with the barrier of demon grooves finally gone she could barely contain herself. Willow's greeting had squashed that anxiety quite thoroughly.

Tara stood on the porch and waited for Willow to come downstairs. Two opposing sensations battled for supremacy in her mind. She was thinking of the long cool table, the metal tube in the featureless room. She was remembering the taste of Willow's skin when she swirled her tongue around the coral nipple. Tara worried about the amulet. Ethan would want to do an MRI, but it was clearly out of the question. _(Never remove the amulet. Not for bathing, not for sleeping. Not ever.)_ It simply wouldn't work. Tara thought of the moonlight splashing over Willow's body, casting her in shades of white and black. No metal could go inside the magnetic field of the MRI. The CAT scan, however, just might work. So she asked

 _(precious lover built with honey in her veins)_

Willow to contact Thespia, to ask her a question, and now she waited, her stomach growling in protest of her necessary fast.

Yet it took a little while for Willow to join her on the porch, and Tara relived as much pleasure as she could of the previous night. She considered it a buffer against the bitterness of the day ahead. She didn't open her eyes, even as she heard the sliding door hiss on its track. Willow embraced her from behind, wrapping her arms lightly and carefully about Tara's stomach, resting her chin on Tara's shoulder. Tara placed her hands on Willow's and breathed her in. Willow held her for a few moments, then whispered, "It just has to be touching your skin, and the chain has to remain intact. If the chain is broken, or if it leaves your skin even for the tiniest moment, then..." Her voice trailed off.

"Mmm?" Tara prompted, feeling warm and comfortable, even though her headache had now traveled down her spine, radiating out from her lower back, encapsulating even her aching abdomen. It was with a wry smile that Tara wished for the gremlin pain of pre-Willow days. How soft and slim that pain was compared to now! Tara suddenly realized that she hadn't made the tree for herself for a very long time. She was scared to find out if she actually could. How much of her mental abilities were meditation or magic?

"You'll have to fight Caleb for control of your body," Willow continued, still in a whisper, her voice smooth yet a jolt in her hands displayed her torment.

Tara turned in Willow's arms, clasping her hands around Willow's small waist. It was difficult to be concerned with Caleb at this moment. "I guess we'll have to make sure that doesn't happen," she said, then lightly kissed Willow on her mouth. She rested her head on Willow's shoulder, felt the thin sunlight bathe them both in warmth. She could stay thus forever, couldn't she? How she wished to freeze this moment, delay her entry into that featureless room, her body in repose on the cool table.

But it was just over an hour later she found herself wearing a thin, hospital-issue gown with an equally thin blue housecoat over top. She was sitting in a little cubby next to the imaging unit, and Willow was holding her hand. The technologist, Doug, a young man she didn't know very well and who looked at their joined hands with an odd look, deftly placed an IV lock in her hand. Her stomach roiled in pain and in hunger. She could feel the weight of the amulet on her chest. Willow's hands were soft, and warm.

It was after Doug injected the dye for the scan that Ethan showed up, his hair in disarray, his eyes a little bleary, as if he'd been drinking. "Good morning, Tara, Willow." He kept his eyes deliberately blank, and Tara saw right through it, even as a flush of heat from the dye rippled through her body.

Tara only smiled as Willow replied, "Good morning, Dr. Daniels."

"I'm glad you are here today, Tara," he said softly, and she remembered the pleading look on his face when he had begged her to take a few tests. _(I know you can't love me the way I love you but it's tearing me apart to see you like this!)_ She had told him to wait until after she'd tried a demon, but Willow persuaded her otherwise. She believed that knowledge hurt him a little.

"Now, I know you have the amulet on. Can you take it off for the test?" he was asking.

Tara shook her head. "It always has to be touching my skin. With Willow's help, we'll move it to wrap around my foot while we do the scan," Tara replied.

"You know that Willow is not allowed in the room during the scan," he said, softly, looking at an imaginary speck on the wall.

"I know," Willow said.

He looked at her, at their joined hands, then said, "Willow, you can join Doug and I in the imaging room, all right? You don't have to wait here."

Tara could see it then, his love for her, how it blazed from him like the sun, warming her to her core. She looked back at him, showing her own admiration and respect, and nothing more. She knew he would understand. Soon he would go on as he had in the past, open and flirtatious, with a new girl on his arm at every office party. It's just the way he was.

And Tara wondered where she would be that day he presented a new girl. She would like to imagine that she would be here as well, brown-haired and scar free. But fear had been growing in her, malignant and oozing, and she tried to keep her mind blank as she faced entering that metal tube. Even without sitting on the floor, she attempted some meditation, some way of shielding her from the truth that was coming. Tara knew the scan would show something. It had to. While it was easy to remove herself from the pain, especially in her moments with Willow _(and oh last night, with Willow quivering on my fingers, her hands on my breasts, oh!)_ , it always remained. It tainted her every move. It was an undercurrent in the ocean, threatening to rip her under at any moment and drown her.

She hadn't made a tree, not in a long time. She didn't want to find out she couldn't. She didn't want to see if she could. She was afraid of what it would show, her fruit malignant and diseased, the leaves blackening and falling in a night blizzard. How many leaves would be left?

Something had to give. She couldn't bear it much longer. No matter how many pain rooms she built in her mind to house the aches, the tears, the screams, there was never enough. She'd never worked through the pain before. She always had the animals as her sacrifice.

 _This is what Willow would have been feeling, Tara. Her broken skull, broken rib, vampire bite. Would you have left it to her?_

Never. Not just because she was in love with her. Not just because Willow became her only source of light, her only reason to live. And not just because she'd been told to by the goddess Aranaea.

She chose to take it. It was her choice. Save Willow, so Willow can save the world.

From in her meditation, Tara felt Willow squeeze her hand. She looked up and into her girlfriend's eyes. "It's time," Willow said.

Ethan was already in the imaging room. Doug held the door to the CT room open, and she and Willow walked through. The room was dull, painted in industrial yellow, and the bulk of the space was taken by the sliding cold metal table and the massive tube. Tara pulled the amulet out from where it lay; it was warm with her body heat. Tara looked at Doug and said with a clear tone of dismissal, "It's all right, Willow will be out in a minute."

The young man shrugged and left the room. Tara could see Ethan turn aside in the booth; he didn't want to watch. Tara looked at Willow, and when their eyes met there was understanding. They had to be very careful here. Tara grasped the chain of the amulet with her hand, tightened it until the whites of her knuckles showed. She nodded and Willow began to lift the amulet, slowly, over Tara's head until they held it in their hands in front of Tara's body.

Tara sat on the edge of the cool table, then bent over, lifting her knees. With Willow's hands guiding her, Tara wrapped the chain of the amulet two times over her ankle. Before Tara let go, Willow firmly pressed the chain of the amulet into her skin. She continued to hold the amulet to her foot as Tara let go, then Tara lay down on the table, adjusting the headrest. Willow squeezed her ankle, tucked the pendant under Tara's calf and then let go, heaving a small sigh of relief.

"I'll be close," Willow promised, and she took Tara's hand, squeezed it gently, then lifted it to her lips, pressing a kiss on Tara's knuckles. Tara was sharply reminded of Peter Whitney, and she swore she could almost smell his lilies. Willow touched her hair, then bent gracefully at the waist to kiss her, fairylike and soft, on the lips. Tara watched Willow leave, the door clicking with graceless finality, leaving Tara alone in the dark and cool room. Her chest felt incredibly light without the weight of the amulet on it; she could feel it on her foot and it felt odd.

"Okay, Tara, here we go." It was Ethan's voice, not Doug's, and Tara was grateful. She slowed her breathing, closed her eyes, and tried not to move.

"How are you, sweetie?" It was Willow's voice, coming through the small speaker.

"I'm okay," Tara replied, lying to Willow, knowing that Ethan and Doug could also hear every word she said.

"Just try to relax. If you need to talk to us, try not to move. Be as still as you can." It was Doug's voice this time, repeating the obvious to Tara Maclay, RN. She supposed she didn't mind. She began to calm herself, to use the techniques taught for generations by her family. Yet even with her meditation techniques it took some time for her to escape from her body, wracked with pain and torment as it was. Finally she seemed to slide away, her tumultuous thoughts receding, her worries washing away, and for a moment she was still. She wondered how much time was left; she felt she had been in the tube forever.

She would need the recollection of that quiet moment, later.

There she floated, escaping as she could the shackles of her body, even as the machine hummed around her and her body crept slowly upwards. She could imagine their faces, Ethan and Willow, there in the imaging room, watching as sliver by sliver, her body showed up on the scans. She was torn in indecision; would she want something obvious to be found, easily diagnosed and easily dealt with? There was comfort in knowing, even if the news was bad. Or would she prefer to find nothing at all, for it was borrowed pain, Willow's pain, and how could it show up even with the use of technology? It would work itself out, eventually, because Willow, left as a normal person, would have also healed eventually.

 _You know better._

The thought paralyzed her. It raced on ahead of her.

 _When you looked, that very first day, when you brought her the tree, you knew she was dying. She wouldn't heal, Tara. I would have taken her first._

Oh, god no. Not here!

 _You remember why, don't you, you filthy little whore? It was me. I vowed to consume her, just as I consume you. I vowed to feed on her, leave her broken and useless._

Tara meditated, trying to flee the insidious voice that she heard only in her mind. It was an oily voice, and it covered her with a thin layer of filth and despair.

 _The joke is on you, this time. In three days, you'll be dancing with your mother in hell, and I will rule the world._

Tara felt him pulling on her, trying to get her to faint, but something stopped him this time. As she felt him tug she began to recollect, with loving detail, every moment of her heart-stopping encounter with Willow this very early morning. Her red hair spilling over the pillow. The moonlight caressing her skin. Her neck arching back as Tara slid her hand down her body. Her hands reaching up to touch Tara's healed breasts for the first time. And, and...

And her slippery walls convulsing on Tara's fingers, her hips arching in delight, her breasts heaving with her panted breath...

 _NO!_

Tara had a seizure.

First, she smelled Peter Whitney's lilies, mixed with Willow's nectar. Her head expanded from within, and she hurtled into unconsciousness, a hole deeper and blacker than any before, where not even Caleb waited for her.

Was it eleven minutes she stayed in that abyss? The time was hard to reconcile. For Tara the darkness was merely a moment, and she was entranced by the depth of it, the feeling of it warm and close on her skin. It wasn't a terrifying dark, and that puzzled the woman/girl/child that sat within, remembering the close awful dark spaces of her youth like nails in a coffin. Instead the dark was familiar, thick and warm like hot chocolate and feathered with angel wings. It filled her with hope. Caleb could not touch her here. And she wondered if this is what death felt like.

Her peace was shaken as she came back to the world, where lights were shone in her eyes and something thick that was between her teeth was removed. She could hear the voices, frantic, above her and though they spoke English, she could not evince enough interest to understand them. Tara merely sought the one face that mattered most, and found it at the foot of her long cool table. Willow stood there, her face pale and frightened, holding Tara's ankle and the coiled amulet in her warm hands.

A look passed between them, keeping the worried voices at bay. Tara, emerging from the seizure as a moth from a chrysalis, she wrapped the memory of those dark feathered wings around her and locked them in place with the love she saw in Willow's eyes. She continued to look only at Willow, even as Ethan and Doug pulled her from the CT table, Ethan carrying her in his arms to a hastily brought gurney, laying her upon it.

Willow still held her foot, pressing the amulet softly into Tara's skin.

Into a recovery room, the pale curtains drawn about her bed, the men still fussing over her. Willow sat at her side and now there were tears in her eyes as she looked upon Tara. A final pat over the amulet, tucking the pendant again under Tara's calf, and Willow drew a blanket over her, leaving her hands untucked, one pale arm crossing over her chest, her other hand firm in Willow's.

There were tears in Willow's eyes.

Tara felt tired; a bone-sapping weariness that left her feeling thick and stupid. She longed to return to the cocoon of unconsciousness, to feel those dark feathery wings on her again. Yet she felt the warmth of Willow's hand, and the emerald cut eyes didn't look away from her. Willow's eyelashes were dark and wet, saline drops hanging delicately from them, rainbows of God's promise to everyone but her. With her softened breath, Tara yearned to sink into Willow, to find out what truth Willow had witnessed to bring her such exquisite tears.

It would take only a moment. She was touching Willow even now. Would Willow even notice if Tara took a peek?

 _(I'd never look without asking. Tara, I never would.)_

Would Tara do less?

No.

So she touched Willow's palm, and merely wondered if the source of Willow's pain was in the imaging booth where her lover had stood sentinel. Watching and waiting, as slices of Tara's body were shown in shades of grey, unable to do anything but watch, and wait. How did Willow keep the injustice of it all from driving her mad?

Tara slept, and wished that warm body was slumbering next to her. It wasn't a very deep sleep, as she felt peripherally aware of the room and everyone in it. She could hear herself softly snoring, she could hear a low buzz of noise from the voices in the room, pitched quiet. She chose not to open her eyes, but let herself doze, dipping in and out of the warm feathery depths until time had no more meaning.

When she finally began her slow ascent to consciousness, Tara was aware that the atmosphere in the room had changed. The room was dark, and Willow still held her hand. The back of Tara's palm was wet. The only light came from the light box, and it was mostly covered with gray on gray scans. Were her two benefactors arguing just moments ago?

Tara opened her eyes, glad of the darkness. She could see Willow's head swivel to look at her. Tara opened her mouth and said the one thing that had come into her mind during the intervening hours of mind-twilight. "The world delights in the merry-go-round of blame, Willow. Don't you get on it, too. The choice was mine, and mine completely."

She could not have anticipated that her words would completely unhinge Willow. A low sob ripped from Willow's throat, tears began streaking down her face in earnest, and as she cried, she laid her head on Tara's chest. With her free hand, Tara stroked Willow's fine red hair, touching the tips of Willow's ears, running her fingers on her neck. Willow quivered under her touch, and continued to hiccup and sob.

It was not the only sound in the room. Backlit by the light box, Ethan stood half-veiled in shadow, his face disappointed and angry. As he noticed her eyes on him, he roughly turned away, balling his hands into fists, choking back tears of his own. He stood with his broad back to her, his wavy brown hair black in the darkness of the room. Tara felt the weight of Willow's head on her, wet warmth from her tears soaking through the thin hospital sheet, her spine trembling with her heaving breath.

Tara finally looked at the light box. The scans showed her brain.

She felt the agony rip upward through her stomach and heart with a heated force. Tara decided she hated Aranaea. She felt the weight of Willow's head on her, even as she looked at her brain. There was no more time. No dreams of backyard-Willow with tangy tomato plants and sunshine, belly big. Tara finally understood the true nature of Caleb's gift.

It was a shadow.


	39. The Shadow

**Chapter Thirty Nine**

 **The Shadow**

Even as a child, Willow was peripherally aware that there was something wrong with Sunnydale. Unexplained neck ruptures, people going missing, a dozen cemeteries with hundreds of missing corpses; Willow had known it wasn't the norm. It was as if the town had gone malignant, that it was an oozing pus-filled sore on California's cheek. How much evil could one town contain?

Then Buffy had come, and brought with her a new life. Willow remembered thinking that Buffy had knocked the wind out of her, that fateful day they sat in the library and discussed vampires for the first time. Vampires, and the Hellmouth, and the Slayer, all part of a daylight conversation in the library with an Oxford trained librarian who had a penchant for medieval weapons hidden in the book cage.

Between Jesse and the coming of the Master, Willow had once opened a door in the high school and found the punctured and blood stained bodies of her high school classmates. She felt helpless. Later, Willow remembered holding the telephone and slumping to the ground as a disembodied voice told her that Jenny Calendar was dead. She felt helpless. Buffy's body cracked over construction materials, a fallen star, lifeless once again. Willow felt helpless. A party in Xander's eye socket, and everyone invited.

Helpless.

Here a little and there a little, Willow gained power. Not just mad hacking skills (though those came in mighty handy on more than one incident of Scoobyage), but powers granted by the gods. Magic. Her mother would never believe her. Her father would ignore her. Her friends would rely on her, and she would fail them, again and again, until they died.

It seemed that to live was her curse.

She should have died, dozens of times over, but something always kept her alive. Freaking Fate, on her ever freaking Wheel, Willow pinned there to keep revolving, up and down, to the end of days. Others would come on her wheel, and fall off dead, and yet she would remain. Cursed to live.

And now Tara would join the Scoobies again, far before Willow ever would. Buffy cradling Tara's body in her arms, vowing to care for her. Another plaque in the jertfa mausoleum, another stone corpse.

And even though she had downloaded more power from the gods than the world's biggest iPod, Willow still felt helpless.

What good were these gifts if Willow couldn't save her? Why bother gifting her at all? What agenda had the gods this time? Willow wanted to rage at them, curse them, fight them. But it still wouldn't stop Tara from dying. Ethan had made that bloody clear. Sitting there, looking at the scans, Tara like a ghost already between them, saying nary a word. Will wondered if Tara really understood the awful significance, since she hadn't said the words out loud. Maybe admitting the truth would be too much. Maybe she was afraid to speak, afraid the words would corrode her tongue like acid.

Because the very words themselves were malignant. Grade IV astrocytoma. Glioblastoma multiforme. The words snuck into Willow's skull and rattled there like unhappy inmates. Medical jargon aside, the layman terms were just as awful. Brain tumour. Inoperable. Prognosis grim. Radiation. Chemotherapy.

How much time?

 _(Raising her voice. Grasping his starched white lapels. He had balled his fists. "Ethan, how much time?")_

Four months. Maybe five. Maybe less.

Helpless.

It was early Monday afternoon. They had fled the hospital, that refuge for the damned, that place that harboured Death in an unspoken pact, where Death leered from every mirror, hung in the shadows on the walls. Waiting for the moment the great purple curtain would fall, the show finally over, the audience sated on beauty and bile alike, leaving the auditorium until only Death and his victim remained. The hospice reeked of Death, and it wasn't the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh; it was the tang of bleach, industrial cleaner, the whiff of illness. It permeated Willow's skin, invaded her mouth and nostrils, layered her in filth.

Tara didn't want to go home. She needed to feel beauty on her skin, taste beauty in her mouth, rinse away the filth of the words she just couldn't speak. To utter them would make them real. Far better to be silent, and pretend that the world would go on as it had. Slain by the shadow, Willow would do anything Tara asked. So they drove to a place Willow had never been before, but she recognized with a heartfelt pang.

A ravine, cascading water, and a Willow tree. Willow looked at it and remembered,  
 _  
(sweet grass, red poppies, blue flax somehow the same cerulean as the angel's eyes_

 _an emerald pendant above the angel's brow, seed pearls woven in her hair, mist alighting upon her skin like delicate moths_

 _resting against Tara's bosom, Tara's arms encircling her waist, her voice soft in her ear_

 _"They are all dead, Willow, all except for Faith."_

 _"I saved the world, Tara, but not for me. Never for me."_

 _"No, Willow. Love and pleasure beyond imagining await you. You have only to wish it."_

 _I wish I had more time. Just time._

 _Just this.)_

Forward and back, Willow could see the great play of her life, the farce, the show. Back, to a time when she was a Scooby, surrounded by friends, companions in intrigue, soulmates in struggle. Buffy, who was never afraid of the fangs of the world, the hidden world that tainted and blessed her every living moment. Giles, Willow's first protector, helping her negotiate the pitfalls and dangers of the dark universe, the turn of a coin, the shadow cast by light. And Xander, whose heart was as big as the world, who saw to the truth of things, even with only a single eye.

With their passing a shadow was cast over her life. Great hulking beasts of midnight, they left holes so great in her soul she thought she'd fall into them and be lost forever. She could have made it her life's work to mourn them, to sit aimlessly in a chair, twiddling her fingers, remembering them until they faded like photos exposed too long to the sun. Willow could have found certain twisted comfort in this, wrapping their shadows about her, letting the great void sink into her skin and drive her mad.

Broken. Helpless. Enslaved by the past in chains far greater than Jacob Marley had ever known.

That's what would have been, if not for Tara.

Tara, who shone a light into her life. Who blazed like the very sun in the firmament. With a single touch, a single caress, Tara had proved that life could still be meaningful. The show could go on, even without the lead actors. Tara hadn't merely saved her life, she had saved Willow's soul.

Willow thought she had a lifetime.

No time, not now. Death had followed them from the hospice, had dug into Tara's skin with gnarled claws, wrapped around her; a lover far more intent than Willow could ever be. They should have been two. Tara and Willow. By Tara's choice, they were three. And now, by Caleb's gift, they were four. Death had come along for the ride.

Tara, so innocent. So sweet. She stood by the ravine as Willow set out a yellow blanket, as Willow conjured many little dishes of food to tempt her capricious appetite. Tara stood by the ravine and when Willow was ready, Willow stood and simply looked at her.

The mist formed a rainbow, but Willow knew that God had no promises for her. He was the biggest farce of all. From the dust He formed Tara, poured vileness and filth into her veins, gifted her with pain that never ended, and He would sacrifice her on the altar of the world to suit His own desires. God, the proprietor of the big joke shop in the sky.

The mist formed a rainbow, and a halo about Tara's head. Her hair glistened with the light sheen, and she must have felt Willow's eyes on her, for she turned.

Three pale lines down her face. Her blue eyes soft, tenderised by pain and much sorrow. Lips full and supple; did they know how many words remained to be spoken? Her brown hair lifted by the gentle fingers of the wind, now stroking her neck, now flying away.

It seemed impossible that Willow could be looking at her like this. Looking at her and wondering which breath would be her last. Looking at her and knowing there was nothing she could do to stop this monstrous tide. Looking at her, and feeling her soul fracture in unimaginable pain. Tara brought her from the abyss. When Willow woke and found out that she was alone, that she was left behind to live in the ugly world that had snatched her friends from her, she would have gone mad if not for Tara.

Willow looked at Tara, and the words that Tara would not say hung between them, a chasm of unspeakable depth.

Tara came to her, and Willow sat her down on the spry yellow blanket and fussed over her, conjuring whatever foodstuff Tara thought she could stomach. Misuse of magic no longer worried her. Only that expanding shadow in Tara's mind. Despite her fasting for the medical tests, Tara could not eat much. They spoke but a little, and looked at each other often.

A single moment of unutterable pain, when Tara slowly placed her empty fork back on the ground and looked beyond Willow, to the shimmering green curtain of the Willow tree under which they sprawled. Something crossed Tara's face, and her body settled into absolute stillness. Willow had come to learn what that stillness meant. A flash of pain in Tara's open eyes, and she held herself so carefully, so very very still, that Willow knew she was in the grip of the pain-fiend, the agony monster, the long preacher. She longed to touch her, but held herself back for fear of hurting her. Tara's face rippled with surprise and shock, and Willow's heart plummeted as she asked, "Tara, are you all right?"

Her body did not move. Her neck swivelled with infinite care, and Tara looked upon Willow, taking a shallow, gasping breath. "You mean right now?" Tara whispered, and a single tear coursed down her cheek. Willow could almost see the pain-fiend gouging her, the knifings of her head, the bombardment of her stomach, the assault on her senses so intense it took every ounce of strength in her body to be still. Any touch, movement, or sound would destroy her.

The yellow blanket, dotted with crumbs. The glowing green curtain. Tara, her love, her soul, sitting across from her, so close she could smell the fragrance of her skin, yet so far she was unattainable. Caleb had snatched her away, began her on a road that had only one destination: dirt clods on a coffin. It was a road that Willow wished she could travel. All her friends had gone down it, one by one, losing themselves in the ending, leaving her behind.

And now Tara.

God, now Tara!

She had shone in Willow's life like the very sun. She had shown Willow a universe of love and feeling she had never experienced before. Without her, Willow would have sunk into madness upon learning the fates of her friends. Tara kept her from that abyss.

Willow's heart burned.

Fear bloomed within it, a black rose with razor thorns. She had felt fear before, so often at times that it was a numb feeling of little note. What else to expect from a Scooby, whose every night was perilous and whose every day was mere anticipation of the night? But this fear, this new fear born of her love of Tara, it sapped her strength, made her stupid, made her weak. She sat across from Tara, who sat so carefully, so still, and the fear turned her bones to jelly.

Fear of losing her.

Losing her!

She had just found her!

With a single wave of her hand, Willow cleared the yellow blanket of all its bits of food and crumbs. Tara continued to breathe shallow, slow. Willow extended her hands and Tara took them; with a soft pull, Willow drew Tara to her and laid her down on the blanket, a quickly conjured pillow underneath her head.

Tara lay on her back, her breasts rising and falling with her short and shallow breaths, the spokes of the amulet conspicuous under her shirt. Willow lay on her side next to her, shuffling until the length of her was against the length of Tara. Propping herself up on one elbow, Willow put her other hand gently on Tara's stomach. Tara's hand immediately took hers, entwined her fingers with Willow's.

Tara's eyes were closed, her cheeks pale and wet. Fine droplets of sweat on her brow. How was it possible that Tara grew more beautiful with every passing minute? How was it possible for Tara to become so sweet, so transparent? The great purple curtain behind Tara's eyes was getting thinner and thinner; Death waited off stage for his moment of glory. Tara's eyes were closed, and Willow allowed herself to look on her lover with all the sadness in her soul.

Helpless.

Freaking Fate, on her freaking Wheel. Tara had revolved into her life, and before Willow could do more than merely taste her, Fate was about to usher her off. Tara should have been a feast, a banquet of kingly proportions to last a lifetime. Instead, Tara was a mouthful, a single taste, hinting at all the richness in the world and gone too quickly.

Her light was fading. The shadow grew.

Willow lay next to Tara, her hand on her stomach, feeling the slow steady beating of her heart. How much time did they have? How many nights could Willow hold Tara in her arms? How many days could they spend in each other's company? How much pain would the gods allow Tara to suffer before the end?

Willow tried to hold it back in her, afraid of jarring Tara with the sound, but the sob ripped from her as if it had desperate life of its own. She tried to swallow it down, but more came with it, Willow's chest convulsing from the effort of trying to hold them in, her eyes burning.

 _(Just what does Tara mean to you, Willow?)_

There were no words. Only Tara. My love. My always.

My soul.

Tara opened her eyes and turned to look at her. Her eyelashes were damp with tears. Her face was calm, still. There was no wall behind her eyes. She looked at Willow and Willow saw herself. Tara looked at Willow, and Willow suddenly made sense. She saw herself through a lover's eyes, and saw her worth. Willow's own soul, tempered by much fire, stretched by loss, refined now by love, more precious than diamonds. Willow. Worth living for.

 _(Mochas in the courtyard.)_

 _(Books in the library.)_

 _(Jelly donuts before the apocalypse.)_

 _(Hot fingers trailing down a hungry breast, skin feasting on Tara's touch, hot fingers dipping lower, but it wasn't about_ fingers, _or about exquisite release by Tara's hand, it was about the whispered words, feather light in her ear.)_

 _(Willow, I love you.)_

Willow, seeing herself through her lover's eyes, saw all this, and more. Willow's soul, tempered by delight, stretched by joy, refined now by loss, more precious than sapphires. Willow. Worth dying for.

Again. _(Giles.)_

Again. _(Buffy.)_

And again. _(Xander.)_

Willow. Worth it all. Tara looked at Willow, and in her eyes Willow saw wasting illness and dirt clods on her mother's coffin. Willow saw the bloodied fists of her father. Willow saw the rabbits, the rabbits, the rabbits. Willow saw the amulet, the great and terrible shadow.

Willow. Worth the price, no matter how high the cost.

Worth even this.

Tara's voice, brought to Willow's ears with the delicacy of a moth's wing. Eyes open, showing Willow her worth, showing her soul. "Will," Tara said, and the universe beckoned. A breath of beauty. "I'm dying, aren't I?"

Pause. Words to bridge the chasm, to erode the tongue, dissolve the world.

"Yes," Willow answered, her heart tearing even further.

Soft crying from Tara then, the words releasing the future. Stark. Empty. No Tara in it. Just another big hole, and there could be no more Saviours for Willow. No more Tara's to save her soul. Even here and now, Tara in her arms, tears on both their cheeks, Willow could feel Tara slipping away from her like sand through her clenched fist. Joyce had died just like this, natural and cruel, and there was nothing any of them could have done to stop it.

Tara would continue to slip away, become thinner, more transparent, and a moment would soon come when she wouldn't breathe any more. No more lifted eyebrows, no more soft hands, no indescribable kisses. The die had been cast, the outcome irrefutable. With Caleb burrowing a shadow in her brain, with the great adamant wall keeping Willow out, the certain knowledge of Tara's death was a sledge hammer, driving Willow into the ground.

This was a moment of great despair. Willow cried, and clutched Tara to her, almost ferociously wrapping her arms around her, feeling Tara's fingers almost gouge into her skin so tightly did they cling. Ever weeping, sobs tearing from her with choked and hiccupping breaths, Willow wryly concluded that she would never die. Freaking Fate would keep her pinned to the freaking Wheel for all time, doomed to love and lose time and again until she was only a shadow of a human, cynical and broken. There could be no love again, not after Tara. She would store up her memories of her love, reflect on them until they dissolved, and when they were gone she would have nothing else to live for.

Yet she would still live.

Pinned to the freaking Wheel, for all eternity.

Helpless.

Tara in her arms, skin soft and fragrant, body supple and pliant. Her love, her angel, her reason for being, dying. The number of her breaths was counted, finite. Her heart revolved ever downwards, not knowing which beat would be her last. And when it was all said and done, when the purple curtain fell and the audience clapped and left, Tara's body would moulder in the ground with all the other Scoobies. Tara Maclay, friend, sister, lover.

Saviour.

 _(The choice was mine, and mine completely.)_

Now that they knew the truth, Willow berated herself that she should have seen it all along. The signs were there, all of them. The headaches, the fainting, the seizure, the blood in the ear. Loss of appetite, loss of memory. The shadow crept up on them, and they were chilled by it, but they never knew the full extent of its devastation.

Cataclysm now. Had Tara known all along that this would be her sacrifice?

 _("I am close, Tara."_

 _"And I am the lamb.")_

When she saved Willow, did she know she was condemning herself to death?

 _(Yes, oh yes.)_

Willow couldn't bear it. She had failed, again. The Council had sent Tara to her for a purpose. They knew she would fall in love with her. They knew she would save her. Willow would once again pull off the impossible, she would solve the riddle, she would sift out the truth, she would stop at nothing until she prevailed.

But she failed.

She failed, and if Althanea was right, then the world was doomed. Tara would die, and Caleb would be reborn, and the skies would flower with demons, and the earth would vomit up the bones of the ancients, and the Old Ones would repopulate the planet. Once half the world bowed their knee to unquenchable evil, The First would embrace flesh, and rule the world for a thousand years of torment. The voices of the innocent would cry from the dust, Willow's soul would be reaved from her body, and she would be sentenced to an eternity writhing in the regrets and remorse of the damned.

Because Tara was dying. And there was nothing Willow could do to stop it.

It was too much. Willow pulled back, just enough to kiss Tara's lips. Once, twice, soft and yielding. Then volcanic, bruising, need and desire. They kissed again and again, tasting each other's tears. Kissing born of desperation, of shattered hope. The end was nigh. The shadow had fallen, and the whole world was dark because of it.

Prone on the ground, holding Tara close, tight, Willow asked the question for the last time. "Why, Tara? Why did you do this?"

No riddles. "Willow, this is what I was born to do. I – I think I was always meant to be yours."

Mine. I've never had anything be just mine.

Tara continued. "I knew from the moment I saw you that I needed to save you. This would be my part to play."

The Lamb. Jertfa. The Sacrifice.

Realization without illumination. Truth born of shadow.

"You had to be healed. You were the only one with the power to save the world. I did what I had to do, and I did it by choice."

Crying. Soft. Defeated.

"And Willow?"

Kiss on the lips, butterfly sweet.

"There is no more time. You have to know what you need to do."

Truth poured from Tara's mouth, and Willow drowned in it. The second Seal of Danzalthar. The scythe. And blood. Tara's blood.

Could this paltry world be worth the price they had to pay?

Devastation. Willow was aware that she should be the one doing the comforting, doing the holding, as she wasn't the one dying a brain tumour for god's sake! But it was Tara who remained the anchor, the calm in the eye of the storm. After speaking of the plan, Tara held Willow for a long time, then continued, "Will, I need to go home."

Willow snuffled, and asked, "Back to your house?"

Still in Willow's arms, Tara shook her head. "No. Home. The farm. I need to tell my father, and – and Donny."

Willow felt small and helpless. "Do you want me to come with you?" she asked, realising that she knew very little about Tara's family. Tara didn't speak of them at all. Willow knew her mother had passed away, that her brother once hit her when she was in the hospital, and that there was something about her father that froze her to the bone.

"I couldn't imagine facing them without you beside me," Tara replied, squeezing Willow's hand.

"How long will it take us to get there?" Willow asked, not looking forward to a long drive.

"Could you try to teleport us there?" Tara asked, blinking and ducking her head.

God, she was adorable.

"Of course. When do you want to go?"

Control, Willow. Keep it together.

"Right away. I want to get this over with."

Willow understood. The sooner she took Tara to see her family, the sooner they could come back home. Willow had definite plans shaping up for how she wanted to spend their evening together.

Skin. And skin.

The clock was ticking, but in a way neither of them could have comprehended. There were no months, weeks, or even days. In just under 24 hours, Tara would be killed, and not by cancer.

By Willow.


	40. Sir

Chapter Forty

Sir

The barn was musty yet cool, and Donny hunkered down in the shade for a minute or five. This morning his father had gone to town to see a man about crop-dusting, or so he said. Donny hadn't said a word to him all last evening or this morning, beyond the obligatory, "Yes, sir," or "no, sir." He could still hear his father's screams, sunny Sunday afternoon napping screams, and the memory chilled him. The idea tickled the back of his mind, and he let it rest there, afraid that his father would somehow see it if he brought it to the front.

His coveralls were patched and dirty, there was a new rip near the crotch. He couldn't sew worth a darn, and a short blaze of anger at Tara surfaced. She had abandoned him. He needed her, and she left. Donny took a long pull on his Molson's, and forced himself to remember why he needed her. It would help with his idea.

Why does any oppressed animal need something smaller, even more oppressed? Just to feel a lick of power over something. With the abuse heaped on him by his father, Donny needed Tara; not as a confidante or a friend, but as a punching bag. He had to have a little control over something. If he made his sister bleed, it was only because he had already bled more. If he made his sister cry, it was only because he couldn't afford to.

That was then.

 _(Now, Donny?)_

A long grocery list of regrets, topped by the fist that day in the hospital. How like him, to go for the already wounded eye. How like him, to use fists instead of words. Could he not have just told Tara how she used him that day, how awful and small that made him feel? That he resented her, her escape from the farm, a place he was still trapped? That he ached for courage like hers, for getting up, and walking away?

 _(From the Sir.)_

He knew he had no ability to show love. That emotion had been cauterized from him by the abuses heaped on him by his father. He had no ability to show sorrow or remorse such as normal human beings did. What he had was his idea, and how it was going to change their world. This could get his sister back.

Since she left, and Donny was alone with the Sir. And the secrets.

The secrets would tear him apart.

The beer was gone; he rolled the cool bottle over his forehead before chucking it into a wastebin. He had something to do, and he wasn't looking forward to it. Most of the morning he had stalled, but if he left it any longer, he'd regret it. Donny packed the quad with water, an old sheet he took from the stale linen closet (it had probably been folded by his mother seven-odd years ago), and a shovel. After a moment's hesitation, he also brought a bolt cutter.

Careful, now.

Donny put his cap back on; the Monday morning was turning out to be nearly as hot as yesterday. Yesterday, when he sat on the porch swing, listening to his father scream in his nightmares, knowing about the blood stains and the shed. How hot would it get in that corrugated tin shed in the summertime?

He knew it, for he remembered, and he let the memory come, and fill him with pain.

 _(So hot the sweat would pour in sheets, stinging the eyes, so hot it would burn a finger if touched. Baking, parched, far enough from everywhere on the farm that no one could hear a scream. Sir's favourite torture chamber. Even the dirt wept.)_

There would be a padlock. Hence the bolt cutters.

It was a jolting twenty minute drive to that shed in the quad. He bumped over gopher holes, and wondered if there was any way possible that he could atone. Maybe his idea was enough. Just enough.

Maybe Tara would come home. To stay.

The shed loomed up ahead, the grass surrounding it dead and brown, parched by the unrelenting reflected surface. Donny pulled the quad up and killed the engine; it ticked softly as it cooled, the sound almost lost in soft summer noises of crickets and hawks and wind through the grasses. He stood and took a swig of the warmish water, grimacing at the taste. He looked at the shed door. It was padlocked, just as he thought it would be.

Bolt cutters heavy in his calloused hands. He took a deep breath as he approached the shed door, then lifted the cutters and with a powerful crunch, the padlock cracked open. He picked it off the cheap hinge and dropped it in the dust.

The police would find it later.

For a moment, Donny stood by the closed door. The sun beat hard on his shoulders, on the top of his head. He spit into the ground.

Finally he opened the door.

A cavern breath of long stink, smell that would sink into the pores and remain there for a thousand washings. Fingers of stench, extending on long pale hands, out to throttle his neck as if he were the one responsible for this atrocity.

It wasn't me!

The girl was dead.

Dirt under her fingernails; she had tried to dig under the door. The earth was packed hard, mortared by sweat and tears and set in the blaze of the summer sun. No windows in the little shed; she had died in utter darkness, but not always alone. Donny didn't want to wonder what his father did with the girl out here, but he could guess by the old smears of blood on her thighs. Her skin was puffy and thin; a tourist trap for blowflies. Donny looked at her with an eye of unwanted apprenticeship. Three days dead, four maybe.

He wrapped her body in the sheet, grateful that rigor had passed to make her more bendable, and placed her in the back of the quad. He couldn't bury her here, the ground was too hard. He would bury her with the others, with Tara's kitten, out by the back dugout where the ground was softer. It was another ten minute drive. He didn't mind.

Donny wished he didn't know her name, but she was on the news. Fourteen year old girl, disappeared, if you have information call this number. Donny felt culpable. His guilt swallowed his tongue. He was afraid of jail.

It was an unspoken arrangement with his father that had him trundling about the farm, collecting the bodies of dead girls. Sir would not be surprised when he next opened that little shed and found it empty. Donny was certain his father was pleased Donny took such a role in their game, cleaning up the pieces. He was the accomplice, and his mouth was as good as sewn shut. No matter how he hated it. No matter how he despised himself.

Her eyes accused him of the crime, as he rolled her into the shallow grave, the sheet falling from her face. He hurriedly spaded the earth over her eyes, sweating great drops in the early afternoon sun. He worked like a man possessed, using every ounce of energy in his stocky frame. A moment of heart-stopping terror, as he uncovered the shrivelled hand of another victim. She had a gold band on her finger.

Dirty and irritated, Donny returned to the house.

Where Tara waited for him on the porch.

His sister was sitting next to a beautiful young woman, a girl with long red hair that would shine like spun gold in the sunlight. They were holding hands. Tara looked as if she'd been crying, as her eyes were reddened, blue orbs hazy. Their fingers were interlocked. Tara's body was rigid, her entire carriage was wary, distrustful.

Her eye and face had healed already. Did she suck the life out of this girl, as she did to him that day?

He could just see it. Her fingers over this girl's body, lifting, caressing, eliciting a forbidden moan. Teeth nipping here and there. And a parade of cells to heal herself, taken by force, taken without permission. Did she rape this girl as she raped Donny that day in the hospital?

Careful, now. Remember your plan?

Screw the plan. He had to ask. No preamble. No hi, how are you, how is your day _(Oh, spent it burying a dead girl, you?)_. Her face was clear, so she had used her magic. As much as he wanted her forgiveness for himself, he wanted to forgive her. It was hard, seeing her there, knowing she hadn't learned a single thing. "I see you learned mom's last lesson well," he grunted at Tara, gesturing with his head toward the girl, sarcasm colouring his speech. There was a spigot on the wall, which he used to wash his hands and face, drying himself on his crusted overalls.

They both had stood as he approached. The girl held Tara's arm, solicitous, caring. Tara wavered, the words striking her as if they were fists. Perverse pleasure and a measure of guilt flooded him. He was a changed man, wasn't he? Wasn't his idea for her?

"No, Donny," she quietly disagreed. "I don't have any more magic."

He could see by the surprised expression in the other girl's face that this was news to her as well. Tara glanced at the girl, then pulled a heavy amulet from its resting place on her chest. "This has chained me, in more ways than you can possibly imagine."

Donny didn't look at his sister, he looked at the girl. Her face had gone pale and stricken; she clutched at Tara's hand as if to beg forgiveness. This was not the face of someone who had been coerced, and Donny suddenly believed Tara's words. He was also immensely pleased to discover that her admission didn't cause him to rejoice as it once would have, never having been blessed with magic himself. Instead, he felt a measure of her own sorrow at the looked between them both as she introduced them. "Donny, this is Willow, my girlfriend. Willow, this is my big brother, Donny."

An awkward moment, as they each tried to decide how to handle this introduction. Willow was holding Tara tight, about to let go if only to shake hands, when Donny just grunted and nodded. With a small measure of thanks on her face, the girl nodded at Donny, even as she looked at Tara, and he began to understand.

This girl, this Willow, was in love with his sister.

But more.

Not merely in love, but in mourning as well.

Tara didn't look sideways at Willow, she only looked at Donny, taking in his appearance with a single glance, reading him the way she always could. It used to make him mad, that she could see so much of him. There was no privacy with her around. No secrets.

Except the big ones. And they loomed behind his eyes and he knew she saw them there. She saw that the secrets existed, and he wondered if this was the day his mother had prepared him for.

It was.

The three of them sat on the porch, Tara and Willow sipping iced tea that Donny rustled up for them, while he drank another beer. The girlfriend was resting against the porch wall and Tara sat between the girl's legs, rested her head on the girl's chest. Donny sat on the ground as well, stretching his legs out, conscious now of the rip near his crotch.

The news, when it came, was no surprise to Donny. He could see that his indifference bothered Willow, but she clamped her teeth over her anger. Donny had known this day would come. Ever since that day he forced her near that solitary cow, he had known that she would rack up the blood debt. Tara would take the easy way out, just as she always did. Just as he never could.

So, a brain tumour. A bad one. Four months, tops. What good was his idea now? What did he have left to prove to her?

Well, maybe it would be just for him, then. He deserved it, didn't he?

"Are you going to go back to work?" he asked, deliberate in not looking at her.

"No," she replied. She looked over her shoulder at Willow, and smiled, a small and weak smile that gave him a momentary flash of old anger. For all the years they spent together, she never realised what really set him off. The meeker she got, the fiercer he became. If she'd just stand up to him, just once, instead of always turning the other gorram cheek, he'd respect her for it.

The silence was corroded. Time rusted between them. Awkward minutes spent in avid contemplation of the peeling paint on the porch.

Donny formed and discarded many sentences in his mind. He had to spill one of the secrets now, but how?

"Are you also a witch?" he finally blurted out, but he couldn't look right at Willow. She shone too much. He contented himself with looking at the wall just beyond her head, streaked with dust and grime.

"Yes," Willow replied, slowly. Carefully. Made him mad. Made him wonder what Tara had told her about him. Would Tara never understand how much he protected her over the years? Or would she just blame him for what he did to her, never realising the necessity of it all?

"Can't you stop this, somehow?" he asked, and that tiny note of desperation crept into his voice, startling him and Tara both. He cared what happened to Tara, he always did, but he always had to hide it. Did she never see why?

He did not miss the look of agony that crossed Willow's face. Tara, immured as she was on Willow's chest, could not see it, yet she squeezed Willow's hand. Willow opened her mouth to speak, and found that the words were lost somewhere between her throat and her lips. A deep breath, and then a shy, "No. While she wears the amulet, I can't." It was obvious that Willow meant to say something more, opening and closing her mouth a few more times, but nothing emerged.

"Why can't you take the amulet off?" Donny asked, sipping his beer, looking sideways at Tara.

It was Willow who answered when Tara could not. "There is an evil embedded in her mind, in the form of a priest of The First." A thrill passed through Donny as he heard those words; they capitalized in his mind as they always did, from the first time his mother spoke of them. "I... she..." and Willow stopped, gulping, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

Donny turned his head aside as his sister twisted in Willow's lap, stroking tears away with her hands, kissing Willow softly on the mouth two, three times. "It's all right," he heard her whisper to Willow.

A few moments later, Willow regained her composure enough to address Donny again, and he occupied his gaze at the peeling floor as he heard the words spill from her mouth. "Caleb, that's his name, he had me imprisoned in a coma. Tara came in to my mind and battled him, sucked him into her own mind. He is now the prisoner, as long as the amulet touches her skin. If the amulet were removed," another deep breath here, "then he theoretically could gain control of her body."

The unspoken words seethed in Donny's mind. His gift to Tara, his most wondrous idea, meant nothing now because of Willow. It's her fault.

HER fault.

She must have seen something rising in him, or been alerted somehow by Tara, for Willow continued, "I thought I had time to save her, Donny. I had been blessed by the gods with gifts of magic. I have all my books and spells. I thought I had time!" Her voice broke.

Tara kissed her again. And again.

This time Donny watched. Love blazed from them, white and healing; he felt it as he felt the rays of the afternoon sun. That love took a portion of his anger, his need to blame, and transformed it into a sigh. What perfect alchemy.

He took another sip of beer, and waited. Finally, "So, you are dying," he said, addressing Tara, "and there's nothing that can be done about it." Tara nodded, her face wary. "What will happen to this priest fellow then? When you die, does he die as well?"

This time Tara answered. "No. His soul will be free to seek another host. He will keep jumping until he has fulfilled his purpose."

Donny sat up a little straighter. "What is his purpose?" he asked, taking another sip of beer as if to minimize the impact of the question. He noticed Willow listening with cautious intent.

"He is going to open the Second Seal of Danzalthar through a blood sacrifice. He, he said," and Tara's soft voice faltered a little, as if she was trying hard to remember something she didn't want to. Patience was never one of his strong points, yet Donny waited, his secret boiling up inside him. His mother's second and final lesson. "He said that he doesn't want my blood to open it, that he needs the blood of another." Anticipating his question, Tara continued, "We don't know yet who he needs to open the Seal. It may be a specific person, it may not."

"What happens when he opens the Seal?" Donny asked.

"His armies will pour out, demons and vampires and all the soulless ones, and when half the world bows their knees to the power of The First, the greatest evil in the universe will take on flesh, and Caleb will be a god. They will rule the world for a thousand years of terror and bloodshed."

Silence, as the words struck him, bored into him. Made all the more real by the environment in which they were said, the dusty heat of the farmyard, the shimmering blacktop beyond, the peeling paint on the porch. Maybe he understood now his heritage, the unfathomable sacrifice another woman made, far in the past.

"What are you going to do?" he asked. His bottle was cruelly empty. He yearned for another.

"There is a way to shut the Seal forever. Willow and I, we go to close it."

Too easy. Tara was hiding something. Donny looked at her, harsh. "Don't mince words with me, Tara. How are you supposed to shut it when you have no more magic? With that... thing hanging on your neck?"

Willow cried as Tara told him, the Seal, the scythe, the sacrifice. For Donny there was no pain left to feel. He had felt it all long ago. That's why there were no tears as he shovelled dirt on that girl's corpse. That's why there were no tears now. Tears were useless. Willow didn't know it yet, obviously. The lesson would come to her, in the end.

"What I don't understand is, why me?" Tara asked, a little plaintively. The question hiccupped in her voice and Donny felt a great weight descend upon him.

 _(It's time, Donny.)_

Thieving little goddess guttersnipe, Donny didn't need her words in his head to tell him what he already knew. Shunting Aranaea's voice away, Donny sighed.

No more secrets.

"This is your last lesson, Tara," he began, picking at the label of the beer bottle in his hand, pulling long strips of paper from it, as if to belie the depth of the secret he was about to impart. He glanced up and saw both of their faces, avidly watching him. "This is something mom told me just before she died, to share with you when the time was right."

The story had been drilled into him, that week before Anna passed away. It was rusted with time, but nothing was forgotten. Bit by bit, the story emerged from him: how the child goddess Aranaea conspired to be born in the New World, to fulfil prophecy. She grew up, and married, and had children. And then her secret lover, a female Guardian, took up the scythe and slew her with it. Aranaea was banished in exile, and so was the spirit of The First.

And Anna? A descendant of Aranaea. Which meant...

Willow sputtered first. "You mean, you and Tara are descendants of a god?" Her face was round, open with shock and dismay, though understanding quickly flooded through. Understanding, and another heaping spoonful of love, as her eyes melted in devotion so strong it nearly made him blanch.

"Where did you think the magic came from, Tara?" Donny blasted back, a little angry again, and discomfited by Willow's face. How could she be so obtuse?

Her eyes glittered a little coldly. "I believe father told me it was a demon spirit, Donny. Which is why he kept mom confined to the attic all those years!"

Speak of the devil, and he appears.

They heard the car, first. Donny looked at Tara with a vigorous shake of his head at Willow. Tara nodded and said, even as Willow helped her get to her feet, "Will, go invisible. He can't see you. But please don't leave me."

In an instant, Willow had vanished. Donny thought of Tara's words, of what Willow had to do to fulfil prophecy, and he writhed in frustration. His dream future could have come so close. Tara and Willow could have had the farm – he didn't want it. He could have had a place in town, with occasional dinners at Tara's place. Would he have become an uncle?

No time. Not anymore.

The car crunched up the gravel, and Donny's heart froze in his chest. Did he wash enough? Was there grave-digging dirt on his hands or face? Sir would be able to see. Somehow he could see all.

The car stopped, and the man stepped from it. Such an ordinary man to house extraordinary evil. He was plain, with graying hair; he kept trim and fit. His arms belied the strength they housed, as those unfortunate girls must have discovered. To the outside world he was a pious man, a man slow to drink and slow to anger. To Donny, who now could see with goddess-given eyes, the man roiled in pitch and tar, endless streams of malevolence reaching from him like the stink of that three days dead girl. The goddess-given sight didn't come to him often, so he turned to look at Tara, wondering what vision Aranaea wanted him to see in her.

He forced his mouth to remain shut. At times throughout his life, Aranaea had shown him people who were god-touched or the opposite. To him they looked like candles on a stick, or, rarely, a torch burning bright, with the opposing side looking much like his father, only less so.

Tara burned like a city afire.

 _(Your sister is going to save the world, Donny.)_ Aranaea whispered to him.

Then why does she have to die?

 _(Only a god can kill a god, as I discovered so long ago.)_

I hate you, you know.

Silence.

"Hello, Tara," his father was saying, his voice oil and filth.

"G-good afternoon, sir," Tara replied, stammering and ducking her head.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" He had taken bags of groceries from the car, lettuce leaves already looking wilted. There was no air-conditioning in there.

"I come with some... bad news, sir." As she said this, Donny's enhanced eyes could see the dent in the fabric Willow's hands made as they wrapped around her from behind. Donny prayed, actually prayed, for Willow to be careful. Sir had strange powers lately. He saw a lot more than he let on.

"Oh?" his father said, pausing in his single-minded track up to the house. His eyes flickered to Donny, then back to Tara.

"I discovered, just this morning, sir," Tara said, dithering a little on the porch. Donny could see his father's eyes grow flinty and impatient, so he silently willed Tara to hurry it up. Tara lifted her face and said, "I am dying of a brain tumour."

Not much flitted over Mr. Maclay's face. Certainly no shock or sorrow. He resumed walking to them, and swung the grocery bags into Tara's surprised hands. "Did you hear what I just said?" Tara cried out, and there was a note of quiet desperation in her voice, as if she expected her news to somehow change the man. Donny knew better.

At Tara's cry, Mr. Maclay turned sharply in the doorway. "Of course I heard you. You and your... magic." Donny knew the word 'magic' had two connotations when it came to Tara. One was obvious, and blocked now because of the amulet. The other was the unspoken realisation of Tara's choice of lifestyle, which her father knew of and completely condemned. It was good that Willow was invisible. Good that she could see their father exactly as he was, and not as he appeared to others to be. Meanwhile, "I always knew it would kill you. You are a selfish, ungrateful daughter. Nothing more than an abomination."

Tara reeled from the words, as she always did. Donny expected her to drop her gaze, admit defeat, as she always did.

Tara stared at him, a burning city assaulted by the forces of hell. She didn't drop her eyes, and Donny mentally braced himself for what was about to occur.

Mr. Maclay looked stunned by the display of force in her eyes. Tara didn't say anything. She didn't need to. "You know your duty," Mr. Maclay said, his voice harsh, scraping them both raw. "Now make us dinner and wait on us as you've been taught."

Tara straightened, and dropped the bags on the porch with a loud thunk. The sound seemed to reverberate through the still afternoon air. She glared at him. "No, _sir_ ," she said. "I don't think I will."

Mr. Maclay's arm was stronger than most people believed. Tara knew what the fist felt like. Donny saw the fist form up, knuckles white and taut, then it would speed through the air to crunch on Tara's unprotected face. He had cracked her jaw, once. He had made her nose bleed dozens of times. Which would happen now?

A gasp from the air, from a voice not belonging to a Maclay, and Tara vanished. His father's eyes widened in surprise as he hit naught but air; he somehow regained his balance. Immediately he looked at Donny, as if Donny had something to do with it.

Donny knew his place, his role to play.

"She's a witch, dad," he said. His father grunted, leaving the groceries on the porch where Donny picked them up. Before he entered the house, Donny looked around, knowing he wouldn't be able to see them, but looking all the same. A small smile graced his lips.

Good work, Willow.


	41. Stardust

**Chapter Forty One**

 **Stardust**

 _(I am a descendant of Aranaea.)_

Dusty afternoon sunlight and the discarded bag of groceries on the peeling porch floor. Donny's face, filled with chagrin, Willow's invisible hands on her waist. For Tara, these things existed, but only in the minutest way. With her mother's last secret reverberating in her head _(I am a descendant of a goddess)_ Tara stood up to her father for the first time, and wondered what price she would pay.

Whatever it was, she would pay it. Not for herself, her time was up. She would pay it for Donny.

She would buy his freedom. He would see just how powerful she is, to take it, and not give it away. She would take it, and he would get away.

 _(Could he have been an uncle?)_

No more time, not with the pain-fiend hollowing her head, not with a broken slab and a scythe waiting for her on the top of a lonely _(stone)_ mountain.

For you, Donny.

The fist formed, drew back. Tara would not back down, cower away as she had so many times before. And her father could see it.

There, in dusty sunlight, a discarded bag of groceries at their feet, the burning city that was Tara in all her glory met

 _(the dark hand, the silent might, the first evil)_

the murderous gaze of her own father, their eyes communicating in ways no words ever could, and Tara exulted. She would take it, and take it bravely, and in so doing would take his power away.

I am not afraid.

A gasp, Willow's hands suddenly tight around her waist, and the blow never landed. Between one blink of her eyes and the next, Tara found herself falling into her kitten-abraded couch on top of Willow. Willow, who crumpled beneath her, shaking with fury and fear. Trying to disentangle herself, Tara turned just enough so that Willow could hold her, fearsome and tight, Willow's face somewhere around her neck. "Tara, how do you stand it?" she heard Willow growl, as Willow's hands pressed even tighter against her back, as if by holding Tara she could prove that she was still alive.

"Ssh, darling, we're okay now," Tara soothed, patting Willow's hair before laying back, pulling the slender redhead on top of her. Willow curled easily on top of her, her head still lying on Tara's breast, still shaking in outrage and despair.

It took several minutes for Willow to calm down, and Tara tried to ease her own breathing, to ease the pounding of her head. Finally Willow looked up, her eyes rimmed red. "Tara, I have seen a whole lot of ugly these past seven years. Monsters with horns and slavering demon dogs at my prom and giant… worm… things. But I've never seen anything like your father."

Her jaw rippling with taut fury, Willow continued, "In fact, kinda wished I had put my demon slayer on." Tara lifted her eyebrow in a clear expression of oh-really and Willow commiserated with, "Well, I would have set Buffy on him anyhow. Is he afraid of durians?"

Looking into Willow's eyes, Tara could hardly believe the gift she had been given. Only Willow could turn a situation as volatile as that into one to make her laugh. Her chuckle died in her throat, though, as Willow returned her gaze, blazing hot.

Tara nearly yanked Willow's mouth down on to her own, bruising her with the intensity of her feeling. Lips frantic now, moving against each other with desperation, hands pulling at each other as if they could somehow meld their bodies together as one.

Breathless, Tara finally broke the kiss, feeling a purple wall of faint creeping upon her. Panting a little in pain, Tara closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing, even as Willow slid off the couch to sit by her side. The comfort of Willow's hand on her waist, Tara waited for the wall to pass, for the world to stop careening about, and finally opened her eyes again.

"Are you okay, or are you being all brave little toaster?" Willow asked quietly, twirling the edge of Tara's shirt around her finger.

Tara's breath seemed to hitch around a lump of love caught in her throat.

"Because you don't have to be brave little toaster all the time," Willow continued, her voice soft yet determined. "It used to drive me bonkers when Buffy would go all I-gotta-save-the-world-by-myself on us."

The world shrank around them, and Tara could only see Willow's elfin face, her perfect nose, clear cheekbones, eyes the silken colour of evergreens in twilight.

"Brave little toaster, a wall to keep out the world, keep in the pain," Willow said, her fingers now inching underneath Tara's shirt, stroking her stomach. "Stay hard. Stay strong. Buffy used to think the same way.

"Rocks would melt and seas would burn before she would ask for help. It took a whole year of monster bashing and vamp trashing for her to learn otherwise. To learn that Xander and I were in it for the long run."

Willow's hand on her stomach, now still. Eyes boring into her own, sunlight on leaves in Peter Whitney's garden of hope. "How long will it take for you to learn, Tara?" Willow asked softly, leaning into her, her other hand stroking the soft hair at Tara's temple. Tara leaned into that questing hand, closing her eyes against the light and truth in Willow's gaze. "Tara, how long?"

 _(In saving the world, have you ever discovered how to save yourself?)_

Tara finally caught the note of desperation in Willow's voice. She opened her eyes. Yet there was still a boulder in her throat, the words welling up behind it. So she leaned forward enough to kiss Willow, hoping it would be answer enough for now.

Long moments later, Willow drew away, but there was still worry in her eyes. "What is it?" Tara croaked, forcing words through her throat.

"We have a big fight coming," Willow began. Tara nodded, and Willow continued. "I'm going to be using a lot of magic." Tara nodded again, wondering why Willow was so tentative. After a moment of silence, Willow went on, "I'm afraid, I'm afraid I'll like it too much, use it too much. It almost destroyed me, once. I almost killed Dawn."

"I don't think you have cause to worry, Will," Tara softly said, the safer topic melting the boulder in her throat, and she turned on the armrest to see Willow better. Her girl was sitting on her knees next to the couch, her face pale with emotion. "These magical gifts were granted by the gods, in preparation for this fight. You don't have to worry about the power seducing you – the only seducing around here will be done by me."

Willow granted Tara a small, wan smile, but Tara could see there was still something else. "My motives are good now," Willow said. "But anyone with the right spells can access the gods, and the gods are bound by the spell, right?"

"It's true," Tara agreed, finally seeing what Willow was talking about. "Whether the petition comes from a person with good or evil intent, the gods must answer."

"I feel nervous about using these powers for anything less than an emergency."

Tara slowly touched Willow's face, and Willow took that hand and pressed it against her own. "We've barely tapped into the gifts given to you. We don't know when the battle is coming; it could be tonight, it could be next week. And, as silly as it sounds, I think you should practice. The magic."

"Work out any kinks, huh?" Willow surmised.

"Better now than in the middle of… what did you call them… slavering demon dogs?" Tara said, yawning.

"You should have a nap, Tara. You barely got any sleep at all last night."

"Hmm. Neither did you." Tara shot a knowing and seductive glance at her red-haired girlfriend and was rewarded with a blush.

Willow bit the tip of her tongue between her teeth and smiled. "Vixen. You need the rest more than I do." Her face fell a little at these words, and Tara knew their truth. She felt Caleb banging around her skull this very minute, making her head throb. Fingers of pain had also embraced her abdomen, crept into her chest. Willow was right. She needed sleep.

"I'll nap here on the couch, then," Tara decided, not wanting to be further away from Willow than was absolutely necessary. "Wake me in a few hours?"

Willow nodded, kissing her again, softly, then rose from her spot on the floor. Tara watched her walk into the kitchen, but as soon as she closed her eyes she was asleep.

Dreams kissed her with the soft touch of butterfly wings and just as beautiful. Stretching through

 _(the tunnel, the purple)_

the universe was a cord of adamant, connecting her to the wilful child-goddess. A scent of crushed grass, shards of a chalice, and whispered chords of a grand melody. This was her final number before she exited the stage; her whole life had been preparation for this last task, and an exulting audience awaited her in the wings. Her mother was there, as was the Scooby Gang, and a multitude of others, waiting for her final breath, her last hurrah, the curtain finally closing.

Tara rose slowly to consciousness through honeyed depths, refreshed and renewed, only to find that night had fallen, and her girl was sitting on the floor, resting her back against the couch, fast asleep. Tara smiled, and looked at her in the dim light. Willow's face was exquisitely perfect, small yet generous, pale still from too little sunlight and too much hospital bed. At Tara's slight movement, Willow woke, her head shooting up in consternation.

"I fell asleep, didn't I?" she asked ruefully, rubbing the back of her neck.

"It's all right, Will," Tara said, her voice low. "You didn't get much sleep last night either." Tara noted yet another blush, and then Willow helped Tara get to her feet. Only then did Tara notice the exquisite scents arising from the kitchen. "Did you make dinner?" she asked, her stomach rumbling. She had barely eaten earlier, under the tree, even after fasting for her tests. She felt as if her stomach were scraping her backbone.

"Not exactly," Willow replied, holding Tara's hand as she led her into the kitchen. The room was generously lit with lamps, and the table held a surprising array of food. "Not knowing what you would be in the mood for, and needing some… practice… I went out and about to get you some dinner."

"Out and about?" Tara asked, sitting down in the chair Willow held out for her. Willow plunked herself down next to her and began naming the dishes. "I brought you some dukbaegi bulgogi straight from Korea, see it comes cooked in its own earthenware pot, and thought I'd check out Romania seeing as that's where Faith is, not that I ran into her or anything, but I brought back some sarmale, smells a little funky, but hopefully it tastes good, and you wouldn't believe how far American money goes in that place. Next stop was Montreal for some poutine, and a quick jaunt to Argentina for ice cream."

Tara blinked.

"Oh, and in case all of this was too much for your stomach, I also got some takeout rice from Wing's, down the street. Want your fortune cookie?"

Tara blinked again. "You went to four different countries in three hours?"

Willow was breaking open her cookie, and Tara could see the smile that quirked mischievously on her face. "Eat your vegetables, they are good for you?" Willow read out, indignant.

Tara had never enjoyed dinner so much before. They giggled over chopsticks and fed each other glass noodles from the bulgogi. The sarmale was delightful, and the cheese in the poutine had just the right tang of salt. The ice cream stayed cold, thanks to one of Willow's spells, and they laughed over it, thinking that Willy Wonka finally had some real competition.

What a far cry it was from the tortuous dinners of her past, forced to stand in the corner and wait on her father and brother, fill their glasses, fetch whatever they wished, eating only when they were finished and knowing she would do all the cleaning as well as the cooking.

The hour grew late, music streamed from her neighbour's house

 _(sunshine of your love)_

and Willow was glowing. Tara could practically feel the vital energy streaming from her, and she drank it in like a flower drinks in the sun. Comfortable silence here and there, Willow's hand occasionally touching her thigh. Summer evening heat, sticky and exciting. Tara thought of the bedroom upstairs.

Yet upon rising from her chair, Tara felt her knees buckle and a cloud of shadow pass over her eyes. Willing herself not to faint, she gripped the chair and closed her eyes. It was not enough, the faint took her, held her in cords of iron, yet the blackness she slid into held no horrors or demons.

Tara woke to the sensation of being carried, of soft steps on the treads of the stairs. She kept her eyes closed, tightening her hands that were around Willow's neck, her head lying against Willow's shoulder. The slight redheaded witch should not have been able to carry her so effortlessly, and Tara was reminded yet again of the gifts she had been granted. Thin streamers of scent wafting about, sandalwood and rose, caressing her skin, the darkness familiar and electrifying.

Tara kept her eyes closed, her eyelids leaden with the weight of the world

 _(I am the lamb, the pawn, the sacrifice)_

upon them. She felt Willow lay her on her bed, felt Willow crawl beside her. Willow's soft fingers in her hair, Willow's lips close to her ear. "My brave little toaster, open your eyes," Willow whispered.

Tara opened them, expecting to see the boring white expanse of her bedroom ceiling, and her mouth stood agape in wonder.

It seemed as if they were in a place devoid of walls and boundaries. The sounds of the neighbourhood didn't merely recede – it was as if they didn't exist. No other sight, no other sound, save for this dark womb of space. Tara felt her brave little toaster world fall away, the hurts and slights of the past dissolving into nothingness. Darkness licked the unseen corners of the room and hanging suspended in the air were hundreds of thousands of pinpricks of light. They floated about like dust motes in sunlight and when she raised her free hand to wave it through the air, they ebbed and swirled in the eddies. Yet the light they gave was slim, just enough to see and be comfortable, see and still be swathed in darkness. "It's like stardust," Tara breathed.

"There is one for every second of my life since I met you, and another appearing every single moment," Willow said, stroking Tara's hair. "Six hundred and twenty seven thousand, seven hundred and ninety four…ninety five…ninety six…"

Tara turned to her love, the soft glow alighting upon her skin like moths, her heated glance evaporating Willow's voice. Quiet now under the blazing heat of Tara's eyes, Willow looked transcendent, verily the goddess from her dream, and Tara's heart swelled so she could scarcely breathe. This was her gift, to experience such total devotion, to taste it in her mouth, feel it on her skin, breathe it through every pore. Willow looked upon her, and Tara's turbulent and painful life made sense.

A constellation of Willow's devising, Tara had never felt more comfortable, more safe. In this space, this moment, the future of blood, scythe, and seal vanished as if it never existed at all. Only this woman existed, this precious woman, this woman who ran hot fingers down the three-pronged slim scars on her cheek. Willow's lips, kissing the corner of her eye that Donny had blackened, following the course of her fingers, sanctifying Tara's sacrifice.

"I can't shield you from this world," Willow said softly, her voice thick. She used her fingers to tilt Tara's head up, planting kisses along Tara's jawbone, down her creamy throat. "I can't heal you, keep you from fainting," a small sob erupting from her now, and Tara felt the boulder of love form again in her own throat.

Willow lifted her face, stardust reflected in her dark eyes. Her mouth was a rosebud, her cheeks pale as the moon. And there was joy. Not merely happiness, or contentment, but life-changing, soul-saving, universe-shaping joy. "I just want to give you a moment, a single moment when the world is not in peril," Willow continued, and Tara remembered that day in the hospital she had said exactly the same thing. Knowing that Willow remembered that exchange, those first heady moments together brought tears welling against the lump in her throat. "Tonight the world doesn't exist. For tonight, there is only you. Only me. And stardust."

Tara pulled Willow's lips on hers, took them frantically, again and again until she was out of breath and heaving with latent desire. Only then did she fall back on the pillow, watched as Willow leaned over her, her pupils dilated, a universe of hope within them. Watched as Willow's fingers went to the buttons of her blouse, starting at the bottom. One by one Willow opened them, laying bare Tara's creamy skin to the dancing pinpricks of light. Tara shifted on her side enough for Willow to pull the fabric away, and then rotated on her other side, Willow behind her.

Hot fingers stroking her bare back, stardust flowing over them. Long strokes of her fingers, from Tara's waist, up her ribcage, to the thin strap of bra fabric. Willow's fingers skirting over them, caressing Tara's shoulder blades, pressing now softer, now harder in the firm muscles of Tara's back. Willow paused; Tara knew she must have been staring at an old scar between her neck and shoulder blade. Then Willow's mouth pressed softly on that scar, touching it with the tip of her tongue, sanctifying it.

Tara looked over her shoulder at her love, softly lit in the glow of the fairy light. Willow smiled at her, her fingers closing over Tara's bra strap. Tara smiled back; Willow smoothly undid the clasp. As she drew the fabric over Tara's arms, up and away, Tara felt Willow snuggle even closer to her back. As Willow's hand skirted the soft mound of Tara's breast, she felt a warm ball of energy coruscating within her like an inferno. She was maddeningly aware of Willow's hand cupping her breast, softly squeezing, lightly pinching the nipple.

Needing to feel Willow's lips, needing to be closer, Tara began to fall on her back, pulling her girlfriend on top of her. Willow's lips immediately descended, covering her own with ferocious need. Their mouths opened, tilted, canted from side to side as their tongues shared unimaginable bliss. Kissing Willow, now hard, now soft, Tara never knew her soul could be so fertile, could grow such abiding love and devotion. She had always thought herself as

 _(the dark one, the shadow, the left)_

small, insignificant, unworthy. She needed the pain to define her, needed her talent to shape her. Could it be possible for such a metamorphosis to occur for one such as she? Her ground was sowed with despair, laden with rocky burdens, and grew only thorns.

Yet what was this?

This woman was her lover. This stunning, dynamic woman who had the power of whole suns, this woman loved her.

 _(there could be joy)_

With easy grace, Willow pulled away from the kiss, her breath short and ragged. Eyes twinkling, she straddled Tara's hips and gazed on Tara's bare chest with all the attention of a predator. The amulet was heavy between Tara's breasts. Tara looked up, watched as Willow's hands went to the hem of her own shirt, watched as Willow began lifting it higher, higher

 _(there could be love, Tara)_

Nothing else existed. Nothing save the ivory skin of her precious girl, stardust breathing on her nipples, making them hard.

Long, lazy strokes of Willow's tongue, following the fell swoop of the newly healed demon grooves.

A hot mouth fastened around a coral nipple, gently sucking, teasing.

Fingers at the edge of her shorts, tugging, tugging.

For Tara, all these things existed, yet there was something more.

A sense of belonging, at long last. A sense of family. Beauty, in this darkest of spaces. And love, enough love to fill every corner of the globe and then some. Love, in the form of lips that thrust and reared. Love, in the form of fingers that touched and probed. Love, in a tongue that swirled and plunged. Love.

There, in the womb of darkness, the ever-expanding constellation of Willow's devotion about them both, they discovered each other. With fingers, mouth and tongue they mapped each other's bodies, discovered new vistas of beauty, reached heights never before experienced. And when sleep finally claimed them, when the stardust finally dissolved, they were at peace.

For a moment.


	42. Quagmire

**Chapter 42 – Quagmire**  
Dedicated to John. I promise you'll get your own story.

willow.

 _(star crossed eyes and glinting knives and cowled robes)_

willow.

 _(harbingers of death, tormenters of magic, yet they tremble in the face of)_

willow!

 _(the behemoth, ancient of days, Tawarick)_

*WILLOW!*

 _(he has risen)_

Willow shot upright in bed, the light sheet pooling at her naked waist. One hand had been wrapped lovingly around Tara's middle; it was now up by her mouth as a single resounding call forced itself into her very brain, calling with a fear that she - cool monster fighter, demon hunter, witch - even she had rarely known.

*Will—*

The call abruptly ended, yet the thin stream of terror continued to grow within her. At her side, Tara stirred, sitting up herself, rubbing bleary eyes and looking at her clock.

2:01 AM.

"What is it, Willow?" Tara asked, and Willow could easily hear the thread of panic in her voice; wakened too quickly from a slim sleep to an open-eyed nightmare.

"It's Althanea," Willow breathed, looking out the window. Her magical starlight had dissipated, yet the room was suffused with moonlight and streetlight. Thin clouds rushed across the sky, as if they were also fleeing some celestial beast. The moon was full, without pity, distant and sere. It had seen far more catastrophe than this during its millennia of envy. The stars of Orion's belt seemed to wink in some conspiracy.

Looking into the night, as if she could see through the miles that separated Los Osos from Sunnydale, Willow closed her eyes and fought to keep the tenuous connection the British witch had forged, envisioning her bouncy, caramel coloured hair, her delightful accent, and her glowing green aura.

*Althanea?* Willow called. Concentrating, her scrying eyes finally fastened on her quarry, and with her mind's eye she saw

 _(I know this place)_

her. Althanea was holed up in an abandoned gas station, sitting cross-legged on the ground, her clothes dirty and torn, one hand against her side. Streetlight struggled through the dust motes and Willow thought she could see a dark and wet smear under her hand. Althanea looked up, blazing with the collective power of the coven, a forcefield shimmering around her.

*We've got the knife, Willow, but they have Angel and the scythe.*

Even through the telepathic link, Willow could hear the pain in the witch's voice. Her slender fingers were tight against her side. Dark, and wet. The knife was at her side; dripping in some dark morass Willow knew was Althanea's blood – the price to get the knife too high to pay. Willow's throat tightened as she looked at that knife, the obsidian blade that glittered darkly in the thin streetlight, the runes a darker mass against its bleakness. It would not hold the stain of the thousands of lives it had shed, the power it had ripped.

 _(For that was the gift of p'achi, to take power, to take life, to rip open the mouth.)_

 _(The hellmouth.)_

 _(And the earth would weep, and the tears would be the black blood of the earth.)_

Have to help her. Have to see more.

Not even aware how she did it, Willow pulled back a little, able through her scrying link to see the ranks of Bringers that ravened around the gas station. Ghostly memories ambushed her, and Willow could have wept to remember the last time she had seen that place.

It was Giles then who had a hole in his side. Priests had tried to break through Willow's own forcefield. Ben. And Glory.

As if from above, Willow looked around her, her heart hiccupping as she recognized yet another grave enemy. Rack the warlock stood just behind the front rank of Bringers, but he could not sense her. His attention was focused on the forcefield blazing inside, and Willow wondered if he alone had the power to punch through.

Not likely. It was not Althanea alone who held up that glowing sphere. It was Cassandra, Meriope, and Bronwen as well, and with their borrowed power Althanea, even wounded, could keep him at bay.

No time to waste, Willow. Find Angel.

The ensouled vampire was just beyond the sight of the gas station, beaten to the ground and bloodied, a Priest of Danzalthar holding a wooden stake to his back. On his knees, he stared at his captors with every drop of menace available to him. Bringers surrounded him, another Priest held the scythe in a casual hand, yet they did nothing.

Seven years of scoobyage had taught Willow something. A remembered conversation came to her, and she could have wept for the torment of memories it caused.

 _(An unknown man breezes into town, says he has something of yours. Buffy, this thing's got "trap" written all over it.)_

 _(He won't be expecting a full attack—not this soon, that's why we have to move.)_

 _(You're my most powerful weapon, Will.)_

Exactly when did I turn into a weapon?

Steeling her soul, Willow whooshed back to Althanea.

*What do you want me to do?* she asked.

*I can keep them out,* Althanea said, *But I can't get Angel, too.* Ruefully, Althanea looked down at her side, still seeping blood.

*Hang on, I'm coming.*

Dressing herself in resolve, trying to cast off the tattered remnants of fear, Willow prepared to pull herself out of her scrying link. She had to talk to Tara, they had to get dressed, they had to fight.

Yet…

In the distance, out in the desert, beyond the gas station, beyond the Bringers holding Angel hostage. Beyond Althanea's sight, beyond Angel's comprehension. Far away, yet advancing, in a slow deliberation that reminded her terribly of Caleb's scalpel, Willow saw a behemoth. Scrying through the distance, vowing to take just a peek before she returned…

"Oh," Willow breathed. She wanted to open her eyes, look away, because even without her books, without the Magic Box, without Giles, she recognized that face, the glinting horns, the slavering maw, the demon who held a smoking mirror in his hand. Her heart froze.

 _(Willow, what is it?)_

Once again, Willow found herself facing a dark God.

But he was supposed to be dead. The Guardians, they killed him with the scythe. The scythe killed Gods. Was there any witch or warlock with the power to raise him from the dead? How could Rack have done it?

 _(I could have done it. I raised Buffy, once. Osiris can be beguiled.)_

It was vastly apparent that nobody stays dead in Sunnydale.

The great demon's eyes, blazing red with unspeakable delights, focused his eyes in her direction, as if he could actually see her.

But that was impossible. Scrying, divining, it was invisible. No one could sense it. Tara admitted that Althanea had scried on Willow dozens of times this past year. Willow had never known.

Tawarick looked at Willow's scrying link straight in the eye.

 _(disconnect!)_

Willow's eyes were closed. She saw him, Tawarick, even as she felt Tara's hands on her face, heard Tara's soft anxious inquiry, "Willow, what is it?" Willow's fingers curled in the sheet, her knuckles white in concentration.

The maw could not smile over so many teeth. In his hand, he held an obsidian mirror, thin tendrils of smoke breathing in the desert night.

Tara's fingers were warm.

Althanea was wilting under the blazing concatenation of power.

Rack's eyes were as dark and malevolent as ever.

Angel was a demon.

And Tawarick lifted the mirror to his forehead, and his eyes shone black, and he hurled a force globe right at her through her divining link.

 _(disconnect!)_

Eyes flying open in dismay, head swimming with all she had seen and drowning in stale and horrible memories _(not that place, please no, Glory)_ , Willow could not disconnect fast enough, and the force globe hit her squarely in her naked chest with all the power of a demon-commandeered freight train. Willow's slight body lifted into the air, streaming away from the light sheet, and smashed into the wall, the drywall caving, a hole gaping, her spine breaking against a two by four.

Fireworks of pain bloomed in her body as she slumped on the floor, distantly hearing Tara's scream, and before she blacked out she saw a most horrible juxtaposition: the leering head of Tawarick attempting to climb through her vanishing scry-hole, superimposed on Tara's whitened face.

Tara's face, which turned to stare at the rapidly appearing Tawarick directly in the eyes, the semi-darkness of the room making her glorious eyes appear as black as his, and with a voice seemingly not her own, Tara growled, "You will not touch her."

Exactly what did Tawarick see when he looked into her lover's eyes?

The black curtain trembled, the pain was a jail keeper, and Willow was yet human. Terror a wildfire in her heart, rally to protect, to save. Tara was dying, crippled by the amulet, helpless.

Willow was only human, and the pain was insistent, and the black curtain fell.

Darkness, but only for what seemed a moment, and when Willow opened her eyes to electric currents of unimaginable pain, weeping near uncontrollably, the hardwood floor cool under her skin, she found Tara's face right in front of her, pale and shaken. Tara's blue eyes, red-rimmed with tears. Tara's hands, warm, comforting, were holding Willow's face. Willow wanted to move, to look over Tara's shoulder to see if Tawarick had somehow followed but pain held her in a vise as sure as Tara's hands. "Don't move," Tara whispered, crying. "Your back is broken."

My back is broken.

My back is broken.

Willow closed her eyes, panting against the pain, feeling a warm trickle of blood coursing down the back of her head, such a small sensation compared to fiendish yowling of her back. Tara's fingers were strong, holding her so correctly. Bringing the memory of the box of Panacea to her mind, delving inside herself to find the oceans of gifted power, Willow whispered, "Heal."

It was no warming ripple this time, passing gently over her body with the caress of the goddess. It was a blinding flood of power, and Willow's eyes rolled back into her sockets even as her body lifted from the floor, as if the goddess herself had picked her up to set her on her feet. Sparks ran from her fingertips, ignited the length of her limbs, and then miraculously, it was over.

Trembling, Willow opened her eyes; her cheeks wet with tears, and looked for Tara. Tara, who was sitting on the ground, was holding her head in her hands, the moonlight and streetlight bathing her naked body. Willow sat down beside her and folded her in her arms, delayed fear causing her own limbs to tremble. They clutched at each other, and Willow willed her heart to stop beating so fast.

She had no idea where Tawarick had learned something like that, to be able to come through the weave of a scrying witch, and her ignorance had nearly cost her

 _(everything!)_

Tara. Willow was almost surprised to notice that her cheeks were wet, that her body trembled like a leaf blown in a hurricane. Was she not a cool monster fighter?

 _(that was not freaking cool, there could be nothing less cool, not Xander's fixation with comic books, not Anya's fixation with money, not Giles fixation with cleaning his glasses…)_

Breathe, Willow.

Giles would have known what that mirror was. Willow's heart clenched in her chest, a tight fist of loss and overwhelming sorrow. The infatuation she had once felt for the librarian had turned into a comforting companionship, as the tweed-clad Watcher rapidly turned from mentor to friend. And to father, more a father than Ira ever would be.

Willow wanted to allow herself some time, a little time to kiss Tara, make sure she was okay, but Althanea's call still raged in her mind, the scent of terror strong over the hundreds of miles between them, and she remembered the scythe, the glinting knives of the horde of Bringers, and that place that was already a sink-hole of misery in her memory.

So she opened her eyes, and found herself still in Tara's embrace, her hands locked around Tara's naked waist, the amulet pricking both of their breasts. One kiss, then two, and then Willow regretfully pulled away.

Dear Tara, whose face shone in the moonlight, those three thin scars luminescent on her cheek. Willow would have blushed to think of what they had been doing a scant hour or two earlier, had she the time.

2:24 am. She had spent more time in the purple faint than she had realized.

"We have to go," Willow said, softly disengaging herself from Tara's intoxicating arms and looking for her clothes strewn on the floor. Helping Tara carefully to her feet, Tara's breath gave a sudden hitch with the movement and Willow's heart lurched. How dare she take Tara into a situation as this, weakened, as she was, fainting and diseased? Even with Willow's vast powers, could she keep Tara safe?

Dare she leave her here? Under a forcefield? Maybe with Ethan?

Why had the gods not gifted her with the ability to stop time?

"There's big trouble, Althanea is hurt and they captured Angel," Willow began to explain, even as they began pulling on clothes. Willow discarded her frilly top for one a bit sturdier, hoping that Tara would follow her example. Tara moved with the seasoned determination of a Scooby, and Willow's heart soared in pride.

"How is she hurt?" Tara asked, pulling on blue jeans and a tight black sweater. It may be warm here by the ocean, but out near the desert of Sunnydale, the nights could be unseasonably cool.

"It looks as if she was cut by the knife." Even as the words escaped her mouth, Willow wished she could recall them, Althanea's warning thrumming in her mind.

"The knife?" Tara asked. Tara had paused in the act of tying her shoes, her eyes open and inquisitive. "What knife?"

"Oh, just a Bringer knife. They all have the same one, I guess they're not too fashion conscious, and it's long and curved and we really need to go." Willow's tongue twisted over the lie.

For a moment it looked as if Tara would question her further, but instead the brown-haired nurse swept into the bathroom for her first-aid kit. "I know you have all sorts of powers, but, just in case…"

Willow could practically hear the unsaid words. Tara used to have so much power. What could she possibly do now in the face of such evil, with a witch such as Willow by her side?

A lamb. Trussed and bleating.

"That's a good idea," Willow replied, trying desperately to keep from sounding false. The last thing she would ever want to do was have Tara feel uncomfortable, or have her feel unvalued. She looked down at the clothes she had been unconsciously choosing. Blue jeans and a sweater. It was pink. Why on earth had she purchased a pink sweater?

 _(Because I was shopping with Tara, and joking about durians, and the girl at the market was a Slayer)_

 _(And that night I came on her fingers for the first time)_

 _(It was only yesterday)_

"Do you have a map of Sunnydale, or that section of California?" Willow asked, lacing up her shoes.

Tara nodded. "It's downstairs," she said, and she led them both down those stairs, and Willow couldn't help remembering carrying her girlfriend up them only hours before. She could still smell the remnants of their four-course around-the-world meal, and her heart knocked painfully against her ribs.

What should she do?

Gather information, Willow, then make a hypothesis. And don't mess up, because once again, the fate of the world rests on your decision-making.

 _I don't want to be our only hope. I crumble under pressure. Let's have another hope._

Tara handed her the map and Willow truncated a spell she had used dozens of times in the past. No potion this time or solemn invocation. Willow merely said, "Thespia, please, show me the demons."

The area around ruined Sunnydale began to light up, and Willow found the one stationary dot that represented the behemoth that had broken her back. Why was Tawarick sitting out there in the desert? What could he be waiting for?

She was not nearly so engrossed in the map that she didn't notice Tara sit carefully on a kitchen chair, her face pale. In the stillness of the night, Willow could hear her beloved panting slightly, and Willow turned her heart-shaped face to Tara and crouched on her knees.

"Tara, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Tara responded, although breathlessly. She had a fierce look to her face that nearly made Willow's heart sing in pride. There was no doubt in Willow's mind that Tara was being all brave little toaster again – something the nurse did far too often, yet Willow had to bring herself up short. How many times had she swallowed some fear or pain of her own for the greater good?

And how had Buffy done this, time and again, making decisions that could lead as equally to disaster as to good?

Tara was dying of a brain tumour. Althanea was bleeding in her side. Angel was captured. And the fate of them all rested squarely in Willow's hands.

Willow felt her sanity slipping. She had felt this tilting whirl a few times before – the feeling of impending apocalypse. She had been part of an unlikely army before now; anyone who would call an ex-Librarian, an ex-Vengeance demon, a one-eyed ex-military Halloween expert, and a Slayer toting a U-Haul of emotional baggage an army would be likely to get laughed at.

Laugh in the face of danger. Then face it, and die.

How bleak life had become without them.

And how now to operate with such an unlikely duo? A diseased lover crippled with an amulet, and a witch who could never dress as a grown up.

Willow almost looked down at her pink sweater.

Tharn.

Willow felt herself unravelling. It was too much in too short a time, too much to process. Althanea, Angel, the gas station, Tawarick, breaking her back, and always in the back of her mind a mental countdown to Tara's death. Her world would end that day. Could she do anything to stop it? Could she do anything to save Althanea and Angel? Could she do anything at all but dress inappropriately and lose her friends?

Tara must have seen something on her face, the blankness that precedes panic, the freezing of a rabbit in the headlights, for she carefully stood, and Willow could see the stardust of Orion in her eyes.

And Tara took her in her arms, and kissed her forehead, and said, "Now is the time for us to be strong."

How did Tara do it? Tara's fingers moved to cup her face, her lips roved down from Willow's forehead, fastened on her lips. Tara was dying, yet Tara was her rock, and Willow clutched at her even as they kissed, near desperately. In the back of her mind, Willow knew she had no time for even this, but she could not help it.

The depth of her need for Tara staggered her. And despair would have knifed her in the face were it not for the fierceness in Tara's eyes.

Tara drew away. "Let's get them."

Willow nodded. Seven years of Scoobyage, especially with Buffy, had taught her one thing. Strike hard, strike fast, and sometimes you could get away with everything. Willow knew she was not there to take out an entire army of Bringers. Her one job was to go, get Althanea and Angel, and come back.

Looking at that hard line of determination in Tara's forehead, despite the paleness of her face, Willow did not even want to fake asking her to stay behind. What if something should happen while she was gone? Tara could not even call her telepathically, something even Xander and Buffy had learned by the end.

Besides, Willow would not let Tara out of her sight. End of story.

*Althanea.* Willow called, speaking aloud as well for Tara's benefit.

*Merciful heavens, Willow, what took you so long?*

*I'll explain when we get there. You have to drop the forcefield just as Tara and I teleport in. We'll talk then.*

Tara's face was pale. How great a headache roared behind her eyes?

Time had been broken as surely as her back.

Willow closed her eyes and concentrated once again on the British witch, suddenly wary. What if Tawarick, with his smoking mirror, could sense even this?

Rack was waiting at the edge of Althanea's forcefield, the Brotherhood of Danzalthar surrounding him. Angel on his knees, a hostage for the knife. There was no doubt that was the exchange her enemies desired. If her plan worked, she would give up neither.

The First Evil raged while Yahweh slept, and Willow was only mortal.

*We had best time it carefully. There are a few enemies just outside.*

*Once I pop in, I'll take over the forcefield. Are you ready?*

*I'll count down from five.*

Willow looked in Tara's eyes. The kitchen was dim, the streetlights filtered through the oak trees surrounding her house. Yet her eyes were clear, her face strong. Unconsciously, Willow felt a strengthening in her own soul.

Tara's eyes were the ocean, love within its depths.

*Four.*

Tara stepped into Willow's body. She belonged there. Willow put her arms around Tara's waist, her chin on Tara's shoulder. She felt the comforting warmth of Tara's arms around her, the smell of sandalwood and roses in her hair.

*Three.*

With all the concentration she could muster, Willow thought of the gas station, with its boarded windows, its grimy floor. She tried not to wonder if Giles' blood was still on the counter.

*Two.*

Leave Tara with Althanea, knowing the coven could shelter her in the forcefield. Teleport instantly to Angel, grab the scythe, touch Angel, and teleport back. Gather them all and retreat to Los Osos before Tawarick even saw them coming.

A simple plan.

*One.*

Too late, she would remember that the wicked have their plans as well. And that teleporting into a quagmire meant that the morass would be unbelievably heavy to get out of.


	43. The Kraken

**Chapter 43  
Kraken**

3 a.m. Tuesday morning and the moon shone eldritch over the hospice courtyard, pursued by thin veils of cloud. The waterfall, such a cheery song by day, became a threnody at night. John stood by the window in what used to be Willow's room and felt the lamentation of the earth deep within his chest. This dirge was far too familiar to him, as one of the keepers of the dying, but in the past he was always able to be philosophical about it, to some degree. Death is but a part of life.

The staff rocked precipitously to Ethan's quiet, calamitous news. Tara would not be returning. Ethan shared the truth about the shadow, the headaches, the fainting. To nearly all the staff members, this unwelcome surprise had shaken them to their core. It was one thing to nurse a stranger through the ravages of terminal disease, quite another to care for one so dearly beloved as family.

John had known, the minute they wheeled unconscious, white-haired Willow Rosenberg into the room, that Tara would be called to her greatest challenge. John also knew that Tara was more than capable of surprising them all. She may regard herself to be merely a drifting mite, but to John she had always been a Kraken.

And not because of the magic.

He had always felt a special kinship with Tara. They had both come to the hospice to heal themselves of past wounds and heartache. He remembered vividly the day he first met her, and recognized what truly lay within. Even in his youth John had uncanny knowledge

 _(child prodigy, a genius, cursed by the gods)_

a knack of seeing what some people tried so hard to hide. With the coming of his God, John knew even more.

How many roles would they each assume before the play was finished? Tara never suspected that John had anything but a minor part; he was a tertiary character built to support the main cast. John never wanted the limelight, but he would accept the role when it came.

Tara was the lamb. John was the shepherd. And Willow was the one wielding the sacrificial blade.

Willow. She didn't remember him. Then again, he didn't really expect her to. It was quite possible she was blissfully unaware that she had saved his life. Willow was mired deep in the currents of the underworld, a place into which John had merely dipped his toe. By God, he had paid for his curiosity, and then some.

It was vastly apparent that no one stays dead in Sunnydale.

John looked into the courtyard, felt the depth of his task weigh down his soul like a millstone, and waited for Ethan to arrive to relieve him of his shift. Knowing what they did about Tara, John hoped that Ethan was not drunk. He had sounded groggy on the phone when John called, but the nurse hoped it was just sleepiness that drugged Ethan's voice. The story of family emergency would work well enough for John's purposes tonight. No need to explain what a large and unusual family it was.

The stars dared to shine.

 _(The great kings of the past look down on us from those stars.)_

Heavy footsteps down the hall, and John turned to retreat back to the nursing station, to feed Ethan even more lies, _(how much had Tara revealed to him about our world?)_ anything to get him out of the hospice in time to save Willow. This night of all nights it was time to repay his debt.

In his heart, John always knew he would see Sunnydale again. With luck, he would survive his encounter.

Past experience had proved that it was better to rely on magic than luck.

...

Rack prowled the edge of the glimmering forcefield, a hound on his Master's leash. Althanea was somewhere in that rickety building, bleeding. The thought made him smile, if that twisted scarred grimace could remotely resemble a smile. He had been the one wielding the Knife when it cut her – he could feel her weakening through the blood connection. The Knife was powerful; use it to kill a demon, a witch or warlock and their magical gifts became yours. He was careful not to kill her with it; that privilege was not to be his. Besides, he didn't pretend to be waiting for that.

She was only bait.

She and that vampire were luckier than they knew. Rack had been weakened immeasurably by his weeks-long task of repairing Caleb's body. Then he had been called into the desert to resurrect Tawarick – something he had to be compelled to do, remembering the last time he had encountered one of the great demon's spawn. The imp had made mincemeat of Rack's face, and no amount of magic would heal that disfiguring scar.

It had been such a pleasure wielding the knife. Thirteen Priests of Danzalthar, unwashed and unbalanced fanatics as they were, willingly put themselves under his knife in the horrific rite that granted Tawarick blood and breath. For a time, Tawarick would be weak, unable to move far from the spot that granted him life. The First put a bodyguard around the demon and Rack was permitted to leave with his life intact.

Weary beyond measure, trudging back to the restaurant, thinking of strawberries and cold beer, Rack was ambushed.

The warlock stroked his fingers along the edge of the forcefield, feeling it crackle beneath his touch. The witch may have gotten the knife, but she was wounded, and Angel was taken prisoner, and all Rack had to do was wait.

Eventually the field would fall. Tawarick would have gained enough power to move. Willow would come and spring the trap, and the jaws would fall.

Upon the amulet.

...

Maggie was only nineteen when she died. Althanea remembered screaming at Cassandra, the coven's seer, after she heard the news. There they were, scrying on people all over the globe, watching the Slayer line (Buffy had been adorable as a baby), watching the Watchers, watching everyone except her own family.

Her husband had left her. Then her only daughter died. Now, fifteen years later, Althanea was still trying to relieve her guilt.

Why else was she so desperate to leave England to see Tara? They had watched Tara for so long, been so vicariously involved in her life that she had become like a daughter to all of them. Watching her take Willow's pain that terrible day was like revisiting an ancient nightmare. There was no bloody way Althanea would watch another loved one fall.

The price was greater than she imagined.

For now Althanea sat, felt blood dripping down her side, and hoped it was enough. She may have the knife, but their enemies now had Angel and the scythe, and with every moment that passed, Althanea felt weaker. She had not wanted to call Willow – not that the red-haired witch wasn't up to the task, but Althanea hadn't wanted Tara in danger. The nurse had become so weak, so fragile, like blown glass and every bit as treasured.

Choices became slim. So she called. And waited. And bled.

What was happening at Tara's house?

*Althanea.*

*Merciful heavens, Willow, what took you so long?*

*I'll explain when we get there. You have to drop the forcefield just as Tara and I teleport in. We'll talk then.*

*We had best time it carefully. There are a few enemies just outside.* Althanea hoped that Willow could sense the undercurrent in her voice. She had no time to explain everything – better to wait until Willow and Tara arrived.

*Once I pop in, I'll take over the forcefield. Are you ready?*

 _(Oh, I am very ready.)_

*I'll count down from five.*

Maggie had loved the ocean. She would listen to the shells and pretend to predict the future. Splashing in the waves, hooting in glee at every little thing. The world lost no lustre for such children.

*Four.*

Dust motes swirled in the air, light desert breeze stirring through the boarded windows. Moths batted endlessly against the windows. The place smelled of dirt, oil, and violence. Althanea pressed her hand deeper to her side.

*Three.*

Yet she was not alone. The coven blazed within her. She was connected to them, in bonds far tighter than mere sisterhood. Their faith sustained her, made her strong, even as her blood wept.

*Two.*

With their power she had erected this forcefield, in a blaze of force that had tumbled the Bringers back. She imagined the coven now, sitting cross-legged in Bronwen's den, holding hands and praying to the gods. Now she had to relinquish them all in favour of one single witch, who always managed to avert the apocalypse.

*One.*

Eyes closed, Althanea severed the spell.

...

They say that smell can evoke the strongest memories. As Willow teleported to the gas station, she was more than peripherally aware of the scent of Tara's hair. The nurse felt so right in her arms, and Willow smelled the sultry scent of sandalwood mixed with roses – it was the smell of hope. Materialising in the darkened station brought other memories back, all horrific. Could violence leave a scent? Why else would she be drawn back to this place where so much blood was shed?

The moment her feet touched the cool gritty cement floor, Willow tightened her grip on Tara, breathed deeply in her hair, even as she chanted, "Saepio impedimentum!"

It was not a physical ripple that spun through the air, but the results were the same. Althanea's field had been down for only seconds, yet Rack and the other Bringers had lunged forward only to be thrown violently back by a shimmering field of blue energy.

Opening her eyes, she and Tara turned simultaneously to the downed witch. Tara was skirting the knife, urging Althanea to lay back. Nodding once to her girlfriend, Willow turned to the window, trusting Tara to take the first look at Althanea's wound and tell her what needed doing.

"Ssh, Althanea, you've been so strong," Tara murmured from behind her. Willow tried to look beyond the field, out into the desert where Tawarick waited. Could they possibly get out fast enough to escape his ire? Why wouldn't he make his move?

"Willow," Tara called softly.

Willow turned back, her gorge rising at the wound in Althanea's side. Althanea seemed to be wilting now, panting with the pain of the deep cut that scored perilously close to her ribs.

"Let's take care of that, shall we?" Willow said, forcing an unnatural gaiety into her voice.

Willow knelt by Althanea's other side and looked at her beloved. Tara's face was pale, but Willow sure as shootin' knew it wasn't because of all the blood. Blinking, Willow looked down at Althanea, wrapped her hand around Althanea's hand, surprised as always by the lines in her palm that proclaimed she was older than she would have people believe. With her other hand Willow touched the cut.

Oh, gods!

She suppressed the bile that rose in her throat, stinging. Madness and evil foamed from that cut, seeking to invade every part of the British witch's body. Willow closed her eyes and called upon Panacea for the second time in twenty minutes. Power arose within her, cresting through her outstretched fingers, and while she heard Althanea gasp, Willow didn't open her eyes until she felt the skin close underneath her bloodied fingers.

When she finally did open her eyes, she saw an angry red scar, thick and raised. Tara reached over and squeezed Willow's hand. "You did your best, Will," she said, correctly interpreting the worried frown on Willow's face.

All three of them looked at the weapon on the ground. It still had Althanea's blood on it.

Willow looked out in the direction of the desert, of Rack. She had so little time to do what had to be done.

There was no way she could teleport out of her own forcefield. Willow didn't dare release the field for a single moment – notwithstanding the danger Tara and Althanea would be in, it would be an all too obvious 'Willow has left the building' sign to all of their enemies.

"Make a tunnel," Tara suggested. "If you make it long enough, you can bypass the Bringers without them even knowing."

Willow smiled at her love. How was it possible for Tara to know her thoughts so intimately? Rack may have been a powerful warlock once, but even Willow could see that he lacked the magical strength to create one himself, or to counter her own efforts. "It will take a little while," Willow conceded.

"We'll be here," Tara vowed, holding Althanea's hand.

Willow leaned over Althanea's body to kiss Tara. The nurse was intoxicating as always, and Willow wished she had nothing better in this life to do than sit and kiss Tara.

Ice cream. Bubble baths. And durians.

Save Angel. For Buffy's sake.

Pulling away, Willow walked to the other side of the room, her eyes on Tara the entire time. Just before she began the spell to carve a tunnel through the cement and desert rock, she mouthed, "I love you."

Tara smiled. "I love you, too," she whispered.

Willow stared at the ground and thought of Hephaestus, the god of industry, and her gift of transmutation. Under her concentrated gaze, the cement transformed into dust, which she immediately siphoned away to land on an ever-increasing pile in the corner of the room. Levitating over the tunnel that was furiously being excised from the bedrock beneath her, Willow looked at Tara and Althanea one last time before dropping into the smooth walls of the tunnel.

*Please take care of her, Althanea.*

*Always, Willow. Stay in touch.*

Remembering the layout of the land from her scry earlier, Willow kept extending the tunnel, always feeling the power of the forcefield radiating from within her. Of the hundreds of worries that assaulted her, Willow thought of the scores of Bringers surrounding the gas station. She didn't exactly relish the thought of burrowing up right next to them.

Some fifteen minutes later. *Are you still all right, Willow?* Althanea asked.

*Wish I knew where I was,* Willow lamented. The walls were close.

This is no time for claustrophobia, Willow. You've been in worse tight spots than this. Crypts, tunnels, sewers, any of this ring a bell? You've been in dirtier places, too.

In the stories, the heroes never had to do so much laundry.

*Can you scry for a look?*

Willow hesitated. She had not mentioned Tawarick to Althanea, playing the absolutely useless, out of sight, out of mind card. She was worried he would see her scrying again. Worry four hundred and thirty one, far behind every worry surrounding her precious girl just up through the tons of rock.

Worries really shouldn't be saved. They should be spent immediately, because there's always another worry right behind. For fifteen long tunnelling minutes, Willow worried about Tara, Tawarick, and the blood on the knife.

So she hesitated, looking back down the length of the tunnel, then looking up, feeling a twinge in her chest as she thought of kissing her girlfriend.

*WILLOW!* Althanea screamed.

Willow was too busy screaming herself to notice.

The shock of her forcefield being punctured was like a direct blow to her chest. Willow slumped to the ground, holding her splitting head together, desperately trying to catch the magic that slipped through her fingers. A destroyed spell always hurt, the power rebounding on the user, and Willow began to stumble back through her burrowed tunnel, knowing there was only one thing alive that could have broken her barrier.

Tawarick.

Worry four hundred and thirty two. Willow tried to gather the magic, but the destruction of her powerful spell had temporarily anesthetised her. Sobbing with pain and worry Willow stumbled, a lance of pain through her eye, and she vomited on the ground as she continued to stumble back. Why had she made the tunnel so freaking long?

Would the magic never come back?

Tara and Althanea were helpless and alone, facing a demon raised straight from the cabal of hell.

Hecate, I beg! Let me teleport!

Pain embraced her in vise-like fingers. A hollow boom shook the ground. Willow cowered, looking at the ceiling, the tons of rock above her. She took a quavering breath and advanced three more steps before there was an even greater hammer-stroke.

The tunnel collapsed.

...

The wound was closed, but Althanea had lost a lot of blood. Tara was sitting in it. The scent of it rose up to her, but it wasn't the sharp scent of hospice blood, tinged with antiseptic and competence, it was an oily scent of hatred and despair. It had been years since she blanched at the sight of blood; now she could barely understand her body's wretched response – perhaps it was because Althanea was so beloved.

The ground was hard, and Tara wished she had thought to ask Willow to conjure a pillow. Instead, Tara cradled Althanea's head in her lap, stroking the caramel coloured hair at her temples, humming softly.

This was what she was reduced to.

Sitting.

Willow was off saving the world, and Tara sat.

Tara looked down. Althanea had her eyes closed. Her cheek was grimy. Tara rubbed the mark with the edge of her sweater.

Just a nurse.

This was surely a deathspace far less nurturing than Peter Whitney's room. There were no heaven-threads here. Tara didn't want to deceive herself, imagine that she felt something she could not feel without the magic inside her, but the place still gave her the willies. So much terror, so much blood. If there was ever a place where hell reached up through the ground with long and greedy fingers, this was it.

A tear rolled down Althanea's cheek.

"What is it, dear heart?" Tara softly asked.

"I never really expected to be here," the witch replied. "I thought I was only a messenger. I don't really understand how I got pulled in to all of this."

 _(We all got opportunities to provide comic relief. We had to, or we would have gone insane.)_

"What's green and red and goes a hundred miles an hour?" Tara asked, softly rubbing Althanea's temples. Yet Tara knew how important Althanea's last statement was; she just needed a little time to process before answering.

The witch lifted an eyebrow and looked at Tara as if to see if she could possibly be telling jokes at a time like this. "I don't know," the witch conceded.

"Froggie in a blender," Tara replied lightly. "What do you get when you add milk to it?"

Althanea snickered. "What?" she asked.

"Frog nog. What happens when you drink it?"

Althanea was genuinely laughing now, a tear escaping her eye. "Tell me!"

"You croak!"

Althanea got up, snickering, until she faced Tara, knee to knee. She looked at Tara then, with a gaze that pierced her very soul. "You remind me so much of my daughter."

Tara's breath caught in her throat, and she waited for Althanea to continue. "You see, she died fifteen years ago, and I didn't save her. I should have saved her."

This is it, Tara. This is what you do best. Sit. And listen.

"You can't save everyone," Tara admitted.

"You and I may both know that to be true, but our hearts speak otherwise, do they not?" Althanea reached over and touched Tara's face. "In the face of such evil, what do you trust? Your head, or your heart?"

"I'm sorry about your daughter," Tara whispered.

"She made her choice, as I did," Althanea replied, dropping her hand. "As you will."

"Choice seems pretty irrelevant about now," Tara said wryly, looking down at her chest. The amulet was hidden beneath her sweater, but she could always feel it there, heavy and pricking.

"You may think you are chained," Althanea admitted, "but you will see. Sooner or later everyone is backed up to the wall. Do you submit, or do you fight?"

Tara looked into the darkness and felt the heaviness of Caleb behind her eyes. "Not even the poet knows the end from the beginning," she whispered, thinking of Anna of the golden hair, Anna of the golden sunny afternoon.

She looked back in time to see Althanea's far-off expression. The witch was probably talking to Willow, and Tara felt a deep pang in her chest. They couldn't even share this simple thing, something even Buffy and Xander had learned before the end.

Clearing her throat of all envy, she asked, "Is Willow all right?"

"She's about done the tunnel and is going to pop up for a look see."

If by the strength of her love alone she could cause Willow to hear her, Tara silently thought, *Willow, be careful.*

A rustling outside, the timbre of voices changed and Tara rose ponderously to her feet to look out the window and see what had happened. Althanea followed, and they stepped around the mass of dirt Willow had excavated to look through the boarded slats.

Walking through the mass of Bringers that parted before him like the waves of the Red Sea strode Tawarick the demon, the smoking mirror in his palm, tendrils of flame streaming from the horns atop his head.

"WILLOW!" Althanea screamed, just as Tawarick raised the mirror to his head. A bolt of black lightning struck the forcefield and it shattered like so much glass. The concussion of the forcefield falling was an immense hollow clap; Tara knelt on the ground and covered her ears, barely aware she was screaming.

The walls of the gas station, weary by so much magic and age, exploded outwards with enough force to pierce Bringer bodies – the front rank was again decimated.

Tara looked up through watery eyes. Nothing stood between her and the demon.

"Saepio impedimentum," Althanea weakly called from somewhere behind her. A thin watery field sprung up, but Tawarick walked through it as if it were nothing. From the corner of her eye, Tara could see Althanea stumbling on the ground, her hand to her side.

The gaze of the demon went to the pile of dirt, then on the ground. Tara's eyes widened in sudden and terrible fear. Tawarick lifted one foot, and then slammed it on the ground, earth actually rippling around his feet in the concussive force.

"NO!" Tara screamed as she saw a thin line of earth cave in, a line that stretched with arrow-like precision out into the desert in the direction of the fallen Angel. The rumbling and groaning of rocks continued as the earth heaved, clouds of dust arising from the tumbling boulders of desert stone.

Willow was under there, under a ton of rock, and Tara was chained.

Tawarick grinned.

What will you choose, Tara?

What are you without the magic? Just a nurse? Just a girl? A drifting mite?

Hell no.

I have always been the Kraken.

Donny would have rejoiced to see it. Tara faced Tawarick with the amulet hidden on her breast, and she felt lit up inside with power. She was a burning city, alight with no magical power, no gift from the gods, just the strength of a dying girl afire with love.

Love, the antidote to all evil.

And every experience of her wretched life, all the pain she took, all she had suffered at the hands of father and brother, had but deepened her capacity to love. A coin turning, a shadow exposed to light, her dark hollow spaces sanctified and ready.

 _You have no idea, do you?_ The goddess had once accused. _Do you really think so little of yourself?_

Not anymore.

It was never about the magic.

It was never even about Willow.

It was always about Tara.

 _(When the time comes, what will you choose?)_

Tara faced Tawarick, her gaze all the more terrible for the pure light that radiated within. When he looked upon her, he did not see a scarred little nurse, fainting and diseased.

He saw the Kraken.

And he was sore afraid.


	44. even the powerful die

**Chapter 44  
even the powerful die**

Althanea had been seventeen when she realized the gods touched her. Until that point she had been more concerned with who was winning the Eurovision Song Contest, with watching the Beatles on her tiny black and white television. The goddess Hecate blithely danced into her life and gave her meaning and purpose beyond that of most mortals.

Teleportation was a gift that Hecate offered to her freely when she asked, and often. Yet Althanea could count on a single hand the number of times she had been given the opportunity to see the world as a God would see it, all the banality of the physical plane with an overlay of the divine.

It was so even now.

She lay on the gritty ground and watched Tawarick approach, the silence deafening after the concussion of sound that tumbled Bringers back like so many leaves. Disoriented, confused, her very soul shuddering with fear, Althanea struggled to rise even as her sight became narrow, focused. She looked upon Tara, and felt awe akin to her worship of her goddess.

There within the laboured beating of Tara's heart lay a corona of divinity, a sunspot of celestial glory, which grew and expanded until it pulsed from the nurse like a halo about her whole body. It was a white light, pure as new-driven snow, sacred as the sun.

Althanea blinked, and the vision expanded. Wings sprung from Tara's shoulders, feathers soft as rose petals, gleaming white and dipped in gold. A gown appeared, woven of shooting star wishes and penny dreams. The goddess stood, robed in truth, and she held the terrible knife in her hands.

Why was the world not bowing at her feet? Kissing her toes, worshipping her?

Tearing her eyes from the angelic vision in front of her, Althanea looked at Tawarick. With only her physical eyes, he was frightening. With her god-touched vision, he was terrifying.

Balefire streamed from his horns, and he stood within a pool of the blackest energy, agitated and hungry. A black hole ready to feast upon the divine.

Tara and Tawarick stared at each other, and Althanea expected the world to tear apart in the silent maelstrom.

A rumbling out in the desert, yet Althanea would not tear her eyes away.

"I will destroy you, witch," the demon snarled. His voice was the crunching of bones between teeth, the gnawing of hyenas over their kill. "You cannot stand against me."  
"You can try," Tara replied. "But I don't recommend it. In fact, if you are still around by the time my girlfriend gets here, you're going to regret it."

Tawarick lunged for her and Althanea opened her mouth to scream even as she wove magic in her fingers, yet Tara easily sidestepped the massive demon. As he stumbled past her, she raised her hands and placed them on his pebbly skin.

"Goddess forgive me," Althanea heard Tara say.

No earthly ear could have heard the thunderous detonation as Tara touched the demon's skin. For one moment longer, Hecate blessed Althanea with her otherworldly sight, and Althanea saw the white glow surrounding the nurse pulse with light and beauty. She could almost see the ripples of energy pass through the demon's skin and into Tara, and Althanea silently prayed for this most desperate gamble to work.

Not even a minute had yet passed.

Then her vision vanished, and it was just Tara, in her jeans and black sweater, her hands still on Tawarick's back, the great demon falling to his knees as his skin began to smoke and blister. Was Tara healing herself, or was it simply her blessed touch alone he could not stand?

Althanea had no time for such rumination. From the corner of her eye she saw Rack through her thin barrier, and his eyes had turned into midnight pools of the darkest power. Black magic sparked about his spider-thin hands and Althanea panicked, recognizing the power within his grasp. Althanea tried desperately to sever her spell

 _(release! release!)_

yet the warlock lifted his hands and the field shattered as invisible glass, piercing her magical soul.

It wasn't a particularly strong forcefield spell, yet the pain of its destruction knifed her already pained side. Althanea had been trying to rise from the floor, yet now she tumbled back, her head striking the ground. Pain cracked behind her eyes and spots flickered about her vision.

The faint was maddening, almost close enough to touch, but Althanea strained for consciousness, her eyes watering, fear a lump in her throat. Dizzy with pain and fear, Althanea watched Rack approach her even as she looked for Tara.

And saw what Tara could not see, saw the rippling of determination in the great demon's jaw, the flexing of his muscles as he prepared to strike.

"Tara!" two voices shouted, Willow's and Althanea's blended together. Both Tara and Althanea stared out into the desert at the sound of Willow's voice. Tara's face brightened momentarily as she recognized the voice of her love; it was only a single moment she took to look out toward that ruined line in the desert, to see Willow flying like a comet toward her.

One moment to distract her.

Tawarick was no fool.

Althanea had no power.

Her spell shattered, her head spinning with pain, a vision of Maggie floating behind her eyes, Althanea tried to weave the magic, whispered spell after spell that evaporated in the heated mouth of the desert. Anything to save Tara. Anything. She could not, would not fail again.

The magic was elusive quarry.

Tawarick, his eyes bleeding, his back smoking where Tara was touching him, draining him, he twisted to face the distracted nurse. Lifting a massive arm, he swiftly clawed Tara in the chest, a horrific four-pronged wound that started near her shoulder and ran halfway down her chest. It wasn't until Tara staggered and gripped his other shoulder, her face blanched, that Althanea saw the amulet fall from her, its chain broken.

Time had no meaning.

Flying Willow caught the amulet a hairsbreadth from the ground, even as Tara's head lifted, her eyes shining dead black. Implacable Willow sent a pulse globe to Rack as the warlock raised a deadly blow to Althanea's blind side, even while Tara glared at and tightened her grip on the great demon. Terrified Willow tried to press the amulet into Tara's exposed and blood sodden skin; even as the nurse levelled her midnight gaze upon the red-haired witch.

"Hello, dirty girl."

No amount of heat could melt the lump of ice that had formed, clot like, in Althanea's soul. It wasn't Tara's voice that erupted from her throat, yet it didn't belong to another. It was a throaty growl that caused Althanea to quake to her very toes.

The knife flashed in her hand and would have destroyed Willow if it had landed. The red-haired witch propelled herself back just in time to avoid the killing blow. Tara smoothly redirected the pass of the knife, held its gleaming edge against the demon's throat.

It was no mere trick of the light. The demon was screaming in concert with her, a monstrous duet. Tara was sucking the life force of the demon, and Althanea saw the most recent and awful injury heal itself with lightning speed. And then Tara's mouth shut as her practiced hand drew the knife with laser precision through Tawarick's throat with no more emotion than killing a pig or a chicken.

Willow was getting up off the ground once more, the amulet draped in her fingers.

Rack's body was only now skidding to a stop, bowling against Bringers.

Tawarick's dead body was a misshapen lump on the ground.

The silence was threatening, hungry.

And the nurse screamed again, dropping the knife with a tinny clatter on the ground, holding her head in her hands. Under the flickering glare of the streetlamp, Althanea could see her eyes flickering. Black. Blue. Black. Blue.

Blue.

Willow at her side, pressing the amulet into her skin. Tara weeping, weeping as she embraced Willow, as Willow held her head to her chest, stroked her hair. Althanea's side aching as if Willow had not healed her of her wound, her head pounding from its terrific blow.

Althanea realized she had been holding her breath, and let it out explosively.

The Bringers advanced, drones of the hive.

Tawarick lay dead on the grimy gas station floor.

In the distance, Angel was waiting.

Willow and Tara were in their own universe; Althanea saw Willow fix the amulet with a single word, then place it reverently around Tara's neck, looking deeply into Tara's eyes. In their haste, in their worry, their words washed over each other and over Althanea as well.

"Will, I thought you were…"

"Tara, are you…?"

"I thought I had lost…"

"However did you…?"

"Did you hear me call?"

"Baby, your shoulder…"

"The amulet, Will…"

"Tara, you did it…"

"We need to hurry…"

"Tara, is it really you…?"

"We have to get Angel…"

"What should I do…?"

"God, Willow, I love you."

"Tara…"

"We have to go…we can talk later. Althanea needs a doctor."

"I don't want to leave you…"

"We need Angel. We need the scythe."

"I need you."

Althanea scrambled to her feet, pain still a knife in her side, yet she could feel the magic returning. She stood, trembling and swaying, watching Willow and Tara, and tears climbed into her eyes, ran down her throat, thickening it. Loss was a hammerstroke to her breast.

Willow bent to kiss Tara, just as Tara turned to look at Althanea.

Willow's lips on Tara's cheek.

"Althanea, are you all right?" the nurse asked.

There had been blood in Maggie's hair. It had not been washed out by the time Althanea had arrived at the morgue.

Tara's hair was sticky with blood; it clumped by the newly-healed grooves in her chest. The amulet lay as a millstone about her neck. There was only a single street lamp illuminating them all – Tara's blood was tar in the darkness.

Rhythmic shuffling, a soft shushing of sound as Bringer robes brushed the gravel, crunching sounds as Bringer boots strode closer, a sibilant murmuring from their lips, their star-crossed eyes somehow leading them to their quarry, straight as an arrow. With a whispered spell, Willow once again enclosed them in a forcefield.

Tawarick smelled like demon barbecue, a tasty dish from hell's kitchen.

Even the powerful die.

Tara's eyes were flat.

"I'm all right," Althanea breathed. "We've got to get out of here." Tearing her eyes away from Tara and Willow, Althanea looked down at Tara's foot. The knife was there, singing its murderous song. Tara followed her gaze, bent easily and picked up the knife. It looked unnatural in her hand.

Tara's eyes were blue.

Althanea could not suppress a shiver down her spine. She had come too close to dying here. Too close to Maggie.

"Willow, let me take Tara home," Althanea said softly, touching the nurse's other hand. It was warm and soft, but Tara didn't smile at the touch. She looked nervous, scared.

Willow looked uncertain.

"Will, we need to stick together," Tara said, squeezing Althanea's hand before releasing it. "I need to be with you."

Althanea could see the war in Willow's expression. Commanders pick their battles, and deep inside, Althanea knew what Willow would choose. Tara was in control again, and they desperately needed the scythe.

They could both see the decision on Willow's face. "Go home," Willow whispered, pulling Tara into her arms. "I'll be there soon. Two shakes of a dog's tail."

Willow looked over Tara's silken head at Althanea.

 _*Protect her, please? She is my life.*_

Althanea nodded. _*Release the field and we'll go. Be careful. We'll see you soon.*_

Althanea was close enough to Tara to smell the dirt and blood, a faint streamer of sandalwood and rose. Her legs were leaden. It was as if she hadn't slept in days. Magic filled her, and she allowed it to coruscate throughout her body, washing the ache away, wishing she could heal herself completely, suddenly shy of asking Willow to take the pain of her old and weary body away.

For it was such a little thing, really.

Willow kissed Tara's forehead, and the nurse turned away with a final squeeze of Willow's hand. Two steps took her to Althanea's side, and the Bringers, like mindless cockroaches, continued to swarm at the edges of the field. Althanea looked out into the desert, and imagined Angel kneeling on the ground, the scythe pointed at his heart.

Willow could save him, when no one else could. Without Tara to worry about, Willow could do it faster.

"Let's go," Althanea breathed, taking Tara's hand. It was cooler than it was moments ago. The nurse gulped.

"Back to my house?" the nurse asked.

"Yes."

Althanea had to resist an impulse to ask Tara to give her the knife. The memory of Tara's blackened eyes haunted her, but they had run out of time.

 _(Hecate, teleport me. Please.)_

In a heartbeat, they vanished from the gas station and reappeared in Tara's kitchen. Althanea could smell the sharp tang of Korean cooking. The dirty dishes were still on the table.

Her stomach growled.

"Tara, I…"

When Rack had attacked her earlier, Althanea had never felt anything so painful as the first time the knife slid across her ribs. Some black magic, like venom, had caused the wound to sting and bite ferociously.

Was it the because of the bearer's hand?

Tara's hand was wet. The knife slid into Althanea's chest with the eager slickness of a lover. Pain was sharp and distant at the same time.

The number of the pizza place was still circled by the phone.

Althanea slumped to the ground, blood dribbling from her lip. Tara hunkered down with her, crouched easily on her heels and looked at the dying witch with a clinical interest.

The knife made a sucking sound as it exited her lung; Tara pulled it out only to thrust it in again, lower, deeper.

Blood erupted in her throat, and Althanea spat it out even as a cloak of dimness settled over her eyes. "Why?" she choked.

One drop of her crimson blood struck Tara on the cheek. It was a dark beauty mark on the pale perfection of her skin.

"Twasn't anything personal," Tara said amiably, leaving the knife to shudder inside Althanea's vital organs. "I just needed your power. Got some mighty important folk waiting to come to town and I need to prepare a proper welcome.

"They want to use me, see?" Tara continued, drawing the amulet over her head, pooling the chain in her hand. "All sorts of sacrificing to be done. Someone needs to stand over the seal, and it won't be me."

Tara dropped the amulet in the expanding pool of blood.

Was this how it felt for Maggie? This coldness, this numbing anaesthesia that crawled up her legs and hibernated in her chest?

 _*Willow!*_ she tried to call.

Tara's full palm slap rocked Althanea's head against the wall, sending another spatter of blood across the wallpaper and floor. "Now, now," Tara admonished. "You don't seem to remember, you filthy whore." The knife slid from her again and Tara held it by her face. "This is p'achi. The blood it spills is consecrated to the oldest evil. It opens the mouth, and takes the power."

One final thrust and Althanea knew no more.

"You have no more magic, witch. It is all mine, and soon I will be free."

Caleb got up and stretched his legs, looking disdainfully at the witch at his feet, feeling the stickiness of the blood on his hands. Tara was sobbing somewhere in his head. Using her body felt corrupt, unholy. It had taken everything in his power to let Willow embrace him, those moments after the amulet broke and he won his freedom. He played the part, though. Anything to get Althanea far enough away from Willow, to perform this most important murder.

He strode to the sink and washed his hands, looking at his reflection in the window. The sweater was ruined – he'd need to wear another. He wished he had a little time to explore the luscious body that he was suddenly master of, but he had a timetable to keep.

Cassandra. The coven's seer would tell him where the others were. She could be… persuaded.

The witch was dead, but he looked at her one more time. "Even the powerful die," he said softly. "And the meek shall inherit the earth."


	45. The Weight of the World

**Chapter 45  
Weight of the World**

Ritual bloodletting wasn't exactly a new concept for Willow. If she had Xander and Buffy back, they'd probably all be joking about how the big bad really needed to get a few new ideas. This whole idea of Tara's blood closing the seal was frighteningly similar to Dawn's blood opening the portal to Glory's hell dimension, and the necessity of Buffy's blood to close it. Buffy mouldered in her grave, next to other forgotten and lost souls, until Willow had changed the rules. Only by beguiling Osiris did Willow bring Buffy back to life, and with the Slayer came the opportunity for the greatest evil this world had ever known.

If Willow allowed herself to think about it, she would have gone insane. The weight of the world had never been entirely on her shoulders before.

How was it that she was here again? This geographical spot, where Giles' blood was still on the counter, where a flying hubcap decapitated their prisoner, where Dawn was taken? She was just a sidekick then, valued, yes, but not the one with apocalyptic decisions to make. After Dawn had been taken from this very spot, after Buffy had retreated into the neverland of her subconscious, Willow had followed her, determined to do everything in her power to save those she loved.

 _You've carried the weight of the world on your shoulders since high school. And I, I know you didn't ask for this, but ... you do it every day,_ she told Buffy that day.

Now the onus was on her, and the weight of the world upon her shoulders.

Literally.

The magic was coming back, flooding through her shattered bones, cascading through her broken blood vessels, yet the pain of her injuries deadened her, made her weak. Never in all her years of Scoobyage had she been hurt so much in so little time. It was less than an hour ago that she lay on the floor of Tara's bedroom, her back broken.

It was hard to breathe. She was pinned under the rocks of her collapsed tunnel, and with every moment that passed she was aware that Tara was vulnerable. Worries were runaway horses in her mind, and back in her subconscious she questioned and despaired of every decision she had made thus far. Every time she tried to gather the magic it was obliterated by pain and worry. Gritting her teeth, coughing with the thick dust by her mouth, Willow tried to calm herself.  
 _  
Yes, I know it hurts._

 _Yes, I know Tara is in trouble._

 _Now, heal, dammit!_

With a shuddering burst of energy, Willow's body broke free of the rubble, her bones knitting, her muscles renewing, life, energy, and vitality streaming through her by the gift of the goddess Panacea.

Why had they not given her the power to stop time?

The gas station was gone, its walls were obliterated. In the distance, Willow saw Tawarick on his knees, his body smoking where Tara was touching him. Bursting through the air like a comet, a supersonic jet, like lightning yet still not fast enough, Willow flew back to Tara, knowing she left Angel behind her, knowing the scythe was still in the enemy's grasp, knowing all these things but knowing that she would die without Tara.

Without Tara, this world meant nothing.

The demon was crisping beneath Tara's hands, and Willow had no time to marvel at it. Rack was advancing through a shattered forcefield, heading inexorably toward the fallen British witch. And Tara was seemingly oblivious to the danger.

"Tara!" Willow screamed, and instantly regretted it.

Her beloved, her eyes the blue of bellflowers in springtime, the blue of hot summer days, the blue of the deep end of the ocean, those eyes turned to her in gladness. A distracted moment, and Tawarick was no fool.

Claws to Tara's chest. The amulet gleamed as it fell from her neck. Skimming over the desert ground, over the oil-stained cement floor, Willow caught the amulet before it touched the ground, and immediately tried to press it into Tara's skin

 _(It just has to be touching your skin, and the chain has to remain intact. If the chain is broken, or if it leaves your skin even for the tiniest moment, then you'll have to fight Caleb for control of your body.)_

because this was her worst nightmare coming true, this was…

Save Althanea from Rack.

A pulse globe, and her eyes never left her girl, whose fair face was screwed up in agony of the worst sort, her eyes swiftly changing from the deepest blue to the darkest…

"Hello, dirty girl."

Tara's eyes were black, the black of a midden pool, the black of oily tar, the black of crusted hate-blood spilt with eager vengeance. The eyes of the preacher.

The knife was in Tara's hands. Willow saw it speed for her chest, knew that if that knife pierced her heart, even she could not heal herself in time. Willow propelled herself backward, the amulet draped in her fist, even as Tara shifted her movement to put the knife to Tawarick's throat.

The great demon could not move. It took two seconds for Tara to heal herself of her most recent grave injury, the slashing of the demon vanishing as if it had never been, both she and the demon screaming all the while.

And then…

Willow could not know if it was Tara's experienced farm-girl hand that drew the knife across Tawarick's throat, slaying him as easily as she would a pig or a chicken. She only knew that it took another two seconds to do, four seconds she had now squandered like a tharn rabbit on the road when she should have been trying to reconnect the amulet with Tara's skin.

Too late.

As Willow lifted the amulet to press into any spot of exposed skin she could find, now seeing an abundance of newly healed pearly white skin, Tara lifted her hand. It would have been a force globe, such as Tawarick would have used.

 _(The knife takes the power.)_

Three-second precognition being what it was, Willow erected a forcefield just as Tara screamed and clutched at her head, dropping the knife, falling to the ground.

Wary of a trap, yet aching for her girl, Willow dropped to her knees beside Tara and pressed the amulet into her skin. Tara's eyes immediately flushed back to blue, and she began weeping, great tearing sobs that ripped at Willow's soul.

 _Get her home. Get her safe. Get Angel and the scythe. And don't mess up, Rosenberg._

The weight of the world is on your shoulders.

She could not have anticipated it could all go so wrong.

A whispered conversation. Althanea and Tara supporting each other as they teleported away. Niggling worries wormed their way into her brain. Did Tara fight him off in time? Did the amulet actually work? What if it wasn't Tara at all, but Caleb who hugged her, kissed her cheek, wept for her? Could Althanea protect herself if she had to?

She remembered the look on Althanea's face, that day in the hospital. She loved Tara, too. There was no way she would allow Tara to come to harm. With all of Willow's choices gone bad, she had to trust in Althanea, trust in the decades of experience she had as a practicing witch, the same competence that helped her all year, helped her find Potentials, helped her heal her legs.

Now they were gone.

There was no time.

Shut it all out, Willow. Focus on one thing at a time.

Breathe, Willow.

Tawarick was an empty husk at her feet. Her field was down with Althanea's departure, and Bringers advanced over the rubble, stepping over the bodies of their fallen brethren with an ease belied by their star-crossed eyes. The desert yawned with a hungry grin, eager to swallow her whole.

And there was no one in this world who could help her.

Fear fuels rage. It always has.

The scum hurt Tara. A debt of pain was about to be called in.

That lone streetlamp still flickered, drawing moths and flies to its warmth and heat. The air was dry and wounded, reeling from the concussive shocks it had suffered. Willow was too warm in her pink sweater. The sweater she bought yesterday, in the market, where the plump girl was a Slayer without a Watcher. A durian, kisses on the couch, the taste of Tara's mouth. The softness of Tara's breasts. The moonlit glow on Tara's skin. Fingers passing through silky folds, a world of pleasure in Tara's hands. The scent of sandalwood and roses.

Willow could not know why the Bringers suddenly halted in their tracks as they looked upon her.

Blackness crept up the roots of her hair, swam into her eyes.

She walked, stepping over a body here, a cash register there, sidestepping the debris without looking at it. Her gaze was fixed firmly on the horizon where Angel waited. As she walked the Bringers tried to attack her with their knives, but the blades turned on empty air. Crossbow bolts thudded into nothingness. Her every step left a smoking footprint on the ground.

More than human.

Why had she not done this before? Why had she waited, hesitated, chosen to tunnel out beyond the forcefield in order to save Angel? What was she trying to prove?

 _(We're not killers, Willow. We fight, we protect, but we don't kill.)_

Buffy's words, and Willow had gambled everything on that ideal. She played her cards, and only then realized that the other side didn't play by her rules. They never had. If only she had done it like this in the first place. Strong. Hard. Implacable.

Invincible.

They saw her coming, the honour guard about Angel's kneeling form, the ones who stayed beyond Tawarick's destruction. A hive without a mind, it seemed they would follow their demonic mandate to guard the vampire to the grave. They saw the black lightning dance around her fists, her black hair streaming in an impossible wind. They saw the cracks of the earth under her feet, her booted heel crushing a scorpion underfoot. They saw, and they jumped up to attack, knowing that they would be crushed just as casually.

 _(We don't kill.)_

Lightning sped from her fingers; it roared around the mob of Bringers and they opened their mute mouths as if to scream, they held their heads as if they were exploding, they writhed on the ground as if on fire.

But they weren't dead.

The scythe fell to the sun-cracked mud as Angel wearily rose to his feet. His eyes were wary. Why was he looking at her like that?

"It's me, Willow."

Lightning was not enough. Perhaps knives would do. Oh, yes, knives, their own knives, the knives they would have used on her Tara, the knives to pierce her heart, eviscerate her. Or maybe the scythe. Oh, yes, the scythe. It would sear their flesh, burn into the hollowness of their souls.

"Willow, where is Althanea?"

They had no souls. Did it matter if they died, then, like the insects they were?

"She took Tara home."

Tara.

My Tara.

Willow blinked, and let out a long breath. Angel was still looking at her sideways; she could not see the blackness fading from her hair, the wildness from her eyes. She did a double-take as she looked at the bodies strewn about the desert, at the scythe in her hands. She didn't remember picking it up.

"Let's go, then."

He was still looking at her strangely, as if she were the one who had murdered his fish. As if she were the one who broke Jenny Calendar's neck.

Must save Tara.

It was an almost timid pale hand that took hers, and she flinched at the coolness of his flesh. How had Buffy ever loved him? His flesh was not warm like Tara's, wasn't soft and pleasantly scented of roses. He felt cold, and smelled of dust and perspiration.

The fact was Buffy did love him. Buffy would have wanted him to live. Buffy would have done anything to keep him alive. He was Buffy's Tara.

Enough said.

The scythe was heavier than she remembered. Focusing the power of Thespia, Willow conjured a heavy leather scabbard that looped over her shoulder. Awkwardly, she wrestled the scythe into the scabbard, and then held it in her hand. She wouldn't need it at Tara's house. There would be a little time now, to make sure the amulet held, to sleep a little longer in the protective embrace of Tara's arms, to wake in the noonday muted heat of a summer afternoon; a perfect end to a night of demon bashing.

A little Tara-time.

Willow pictured Tara's house as they had left it an hour earlier. The dishes strewn on the table, the kitten-abraded couch, the congealed gravy of the poutine. And Tara, safe.

Tara, alive.

Tara.

Pop.

Willow dropped Angel's hand as they appeared in Tara's kitchen. The floor was sticky; there was a sharp tang in the air that Willow recognized all too well. It reminded her of the butcher shop where she had purchased blood for Spike.

Her eyes dropped down to the floor. Her feet felt heavy – she couldn't lift them out of the pond of blood where Althanea rested like a water lily. She crouched; her head feeling strangely light, unbelieving. A trembling finger touched the side of Althanea's neck. She had once kissed Tara on that same spot and felt the lifeblood of her beloved whooshing through her veins.

Althanea was dead.

And the amulet lay on the floor, its spires covered in slick redness.

The knife was gone.

Angel's soft touch on her shoulder snapped her from her detached contemplation.

"TARA!" Willow screamed, and she leaped from the floor and tore through the house, calling Tara's name, knowing, oh knowing that Tara would not be found. Not here. Not now.

Not ever?

Her strength gone, Willow collapsed on Tara's bed. It was still unmade. She gathered the sheets into her arms and breathed deeply, smelling Tara everywhere, only now noticing that tears were streaming down her cheeks.

A soft knock on the door and Willow looked up. Angel stood there, his face haggard and drawn. "She's not here, Willow."

Willow hiccupped before she responded, her voice shaking. "I know."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I need information. I need to find out where Tara is. I need to find out what the HELL I am supposed to do now!"

There were bloody footprints on the floor. The image of Althanea's face ghosted into her vision. Loss gnawed at her backbone, scraped her insides raw. The witch had been so helpful, so kind. All year long the supplicant of Hecate had provided Willow with information, helped her find Potentials, helped her heal. At least, until Willow had been gifted by the gods.

Willow's head snapped up.

 _*Thespia, answer me!*_

Nothing.

 _*Maia? Aranaea?*_

"Someone answer me!" Willow screamed aloud, her chest shuddering with her broken breath, the emptiness of the ether a void in her soul.

The world was so very heavy.

Where was heaven?

"If the gods won't answer you," Angel said slowly, "then maybe someone else will."

Willow looked at him, pain and fright lancing her breasts. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice watery.

"Beljoxa's Eye."

Willow didn't want to open the demonic portal in Tara's living room, but found she just didn't want to go anywhere else. Here there were the little lights, and the abraded couch, and the smell of bulgogi still in the air. Here Willow could pretend that Tara was just upstairs, just out of sight, just for a moment…

Angel easily drew a kitchen knife down his arm, blood beading upon his pale skin. He flicked the blood in the air as he intoned, "Ek'vola mok't Beljoxa do'kar."

A whirling, fantastical portal appeared in the air, and Willow's mouth turned dry. "Ladies first," he drawled, gesturing to the mystical doorway.

Willow took a deep breath and walked through the portal, Angel on her heels.

They found themselves in a pitch black, windy tunnel, about ten feet away from Beljoxa's Eye. Even though Willow had grilled both Anya and Giles about their experience, she was still taken aback at the sight of all those eyeballs, that hovering mass of mystical energy.

The Eye blinked.

Well, most of the eyes blinked.

"What is this, some kind of freak show?" the Eye bellowed. "Maybe I should charge admission, you think?"

Willow gulped and twisted the hem of her pink sweater. She should have changed back at the house when she had the chance. It was dirty and torn, much like the rest of her.

"I need your help."

"What you need, toots, is to get out of here. Do you think you have time for chit chat? Every second you spend in here a minute goes by in the outside world."

Willow's heart froze. Anya and Giles didn't tell her that part. But come to think of it, it did seem an inordinate amount of time they had spent in the company of the Eye.

"Where is Tara?"

"If you're going to ask questions, you might as well ask the right ones. You want to save your little dimension, your little plane of existence? You want to see your girlfriend alive? Then get out of here. You have no time. You have to save Oz."


	46. Too Late

**Chapter 46  
Too Late**

The sun hat was woven of straw; Cassandra bought it at the farmers market earlier this week. It cast pleasant shadows across her face. She wandered barefoot through her garden, delighting in the warm dirt between her toes, the familiar blush of heat on her back from the giggling sun. With a small pair of snips she gathered fresh blossoms for her kitchen table: a fat peony, stately delphiniums, shy pansies and regal roses. She stopped at the blue lobelia with her snips in hand, just shy of cutting the thin stems. After a moments hesitation she left the flowers alone, a small tingling growing in her upper spine signalling either a vision or just a shiver from looking at the flower that meant malevolence and ill will. Normally she wasn't superstitious – the flowers were beautiful, and meant to be enjoyed, but there was something wrong about the day already, and she didn't want to tempt the oft-capricious gods.

Her cottage was appropriately just that – a small building built decades earlier with actual thatch on the roof and water from a hand pump. To be sure, she wasn't some country bumpkin who raised sheep and composed bad poetry. She had a house in Exeter, a husband who was a podiatrist, and a small brood of children scattered about the county of Devon.

Yet she was grateful for these moments at her cottage, in her garden, with the dirt of Gaia between her toes. She felt close to her goddess, with whom she shared her name, and to the elements of existence. Yet try as she might, she could not entirely erase the sense of evil that pervaded the earth, sending tendrils of menace around the globe, a malevolent force that had been growing stronger and stronger all year long. An evil that yearned to swallow the entire world in its hellmouth.

Evil was not new to her, nor to her coven. They have all had their share of evil, of death.

Of failure.

Maggie had been too young. So had Cassandra. It was a small pittance of comfort to lay her worst failure on her own youth, her inexperience.

The itch between her shoulders grew stronger. She hooked the basket of flowers in her elbow and reached in her apron for her crystal. The minute she touched its smooth cool façade, a striking image smashed into her brain.

Her dear friend Althanea, slumped against a wall, a knife making its slow, deliberate way inside her, seeking her organs, her blood, her power.

Cassandra closed her eyes to focus more fully on the vision, her heart quailing as the onslaught of visions continued. The blood pooling outward, conquering the complacent linoleum. And Althanea's killer?

Tara.

Dear god.

Cassandra had known this was a possibility, had known since they scried on Tara the day she decided to fish Caleb out of Willow's brain. But to see it happen, her worst fears realized, was nearly more than she could bear.

She had to contact the others. Now. Before it was too late.

Before she opened her eyes, another vision flashed before her. Blue eyes, Tara's perfect hands, and the knife piercing her own chest.

It seemed the fate of Kassandra of old was about to be hers.

She opened her eyes and was not surprised to see Tara standing right in front of her, the bloodied knife in her hands, smudges of dirt on her cheeks and clothes, her eyes as malevolent a blue as the lobelia flowers in her garden.

Tara was not in them. For that small favour, Cassandra was glad.

"Good will prevail," Cassandra whispered, scared but trying not to be.

The basket of flowers tumbled from her elbow as the knife found her heart. They would wilt in the relentless heat of the summer afternoon, discarded forever. The nearest neighbour would discover her body in the garden when she came for their customary afternoon tea. That evening she would scald her hands trying to get Cassandra's blood out of the hem of her flowery skirt, weeping all the while. Only the coven would realize what was happening, why select members of their sect were dying so violently, so fast, but they wouldn't realize in time. Meanwhile, Cassandra was dead, and her knowledge of the other chief supplicants of the gods was stolen.

...

Aristotle may have said that all men by nature desire knowledge, but Oz knew differently. Men desired money, power, toys, and women. Oz knew that knowledge itself was just a chamber pot for the gods, a receptacle for all sorts of mental effluvium and just as meaningless. Those intellectually gifted people he was forced to associate with would spout about knowledge and wisdom and the mysteries of the universe, pontificating endlessly with rapacious wit to the detriment of the entire human species, perspicacious in their dealings with man and shunned because of it.

All Oz wanted was a tiny corner of his brain to call his own. He just wanted to be normal, but he should have known from the start it would be impossible. If Maia was so convinced on making him a human filing cabinet for her mysteries, she should have made him a bit more courageous as well.

He came to believe that this entire world was a great farce. God, the big man, the man upstairs, he was just the proprietor of the great joke-shop of the sky. How often did one rejoice in some blessing from the gods, only to find the rubber chicken within?

No day was that truth more evident than when his cousin Jordy bit him on the finger.

Damn. Brilliant and cursed at the same time. Not exactly a winning combination by anyone's standards.

It became easy for Oz to become disinterested in life; what good had living ever done him? Rare moments of interest came with his music, and if no one really understood the name of his band he could forgive them, right?

Then one day a girl in an Eskimo suit walked into his life. At first she understood so much about him, being similarly cursed with brains, with witchcraft, falling into the cracks of this most unusual underworld.

And one day he walked out. A coward, like always.

She couldn't understand, even with all she knew. She couldn't understand, because she couldn't be in his skin. The wolf was always hungry. It would have swallowed her whole, and without pity.

So he left, to tame the wolf, trying for the first time to step up and be a man. Be worthy of his knowledge from Maia, to finally help the Scooby Gang in their unnoticed fight to save the world.

They never knew his greatest secret of all. It wasn't only trivialities that Maia shared with him. Occasionally he would wake up knowing the enemy's plans. It didn't happen every time, indeed, not often enough for it to make a difference, or so he believed. He always had a hard time speaking his mind, sharing his secrets. To open his mouth, to accept his responsibility, was often more than he could bear. Besides, the Scooby Gang did well enough with Willow on their team. And if he could interject here and there with the most appropriate thing, that was enough.

The wolf was consuming him. He left after killing Veruca, and returned later in the year, thinking he had it conquered, ready to step up for Willow and the Scoobies. It didn't take long to learn that life would never be the same. The wolf wasn't content with the full moon – all moments of extreme peril would unleash the beast, and after two agonizing years Oz left again, knowing he was breaking Willow's heart. Knowing, at last, that there would be no future with her, not with the beast inside him, devouring him.

But this entire year seemed different. The apocalypse actually seemed determined this time, and Maia had given Oz just enough information. His conscience grew weary. He returned to Sunnydale too late. They died because of him. He could have warned them, he could have saved them.

Everlastingly too late.

It was devastating to be caught by an Extraction team, removed to the devastated remains of the Watcher's Council. He stewed in his grief, remembering the red-haired girl who lit up his life, brought soul to his music, and said the words that he could never quite say. He believed her dead, and mourned her loss with solemn melancholy.

Even that enraged him. Could he suffer no greater emotion than mere melancholy?

Then. Willow alive. Willow gravely injured, but Willow alive.

More. Willow the last Scooby. Willow the last hope. Willow the last, the only one to stop the apocalypse. Would Oz still stand aside?

Not this time. He made arrangements for his departure, but just before he could leave he received a blistering ultimatum from Maia. Willow was hurt, but she was recovering. If he blundered in there right now, he could ruin everything. Besides, they told him she would come to him. They said she would return to the Council when she was well, take up the mantle of a Watcher, help teach and train other Watchers because the world was suddenly awash in Slayers.

There was a void in Maia's communications, something she failed to mention. He obsessed upon it, even as he sat in his dismal room. His accommodations here were hardly better than the ones at the Initiative, but at least he was here by choice. They had the same grey walls, same dull floor, and same shatterproof glass in front. Yet it held some trappings of a home, posters hung on the walls

 _(Dingoes ate my baby)_

a small television set and VCR, and photographs in unadorned frames. As nightfall approached the TV would be removed and electricity would be piped through near invisible wires in the glass. He had no guardian here in this subterranean holding. He needed no guardian other than his own beleaguered conscience.

Willow would come. Oz was surprised by how he held on to this slim hope, the opportunity of seeing Willow again. He tried to tell himself it was just business, that he just had information vital to her mission to share

 _(I know where Stone Mountain is, I know what the knife does, I know what Caleb plans on doing with the knife, I know how much you need this information, Willow, and I know my heart aches to see you again…)_

but it didn't really work. He was simply too smart to pull the wool over his own eyes.

He could lie about everything else but this.

So he waited, because they assured him that she was coming. There was an oddly menacing silence in his head – Maia had retreated unexpectedly from his mind. A faint tang of worry and fear stretched through the ether and he shivered, wondering what his goddess had to be scared of. What could have caused her to flee?

If Maia had stayed, she could have saved him. One warning.

But do gods ever understand the singleness of a human life? Or is a human merely another piece on the game-board, a toy on the shelf, easily broken and discarded?

There was a faint popping sound, and the room was suddenly filled with Willow's scent. Oz closed his eyes for a small moment, relieved beyond measure that Willow came to him this time. He would say her name, and turn around, and everything would be forgiven.

"Willow," he breathed, his eyes closed, drinking in her scent.

So he turned, but the woman in front of him was not Willow.

Why did he smell Willow on this woman's skin?

It was maddening. Willow was all over this girl, her scent deeply embedded in clothing, in hair, in skin. Oz's eyes widened with equal parts surprise and pain. The woman had no scruples, and there was a knife in her hand. A knife that was a cool edge in his chest, parting his ribs with calm efficiency, thrusting with surety for his frantically beating heart.

The wolf would not come, even as he called for it.

Statistics said it was rare to be killed by a complete stranger. Killing was usually such an intimate act. He knew nothing of this girl, except that she was not foreign to Willow's touch, that she also had access to the closely guarded vistas of Willow's heart. If Maia were there, he would have known.

He would have prayed for his killer.

Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, and the room was impossibly bright.

His killer had blue eyes, the disinterested blue of cobalt mines. Her blue eyes swiftly looked to the side of the room, but he couldn't command his body well enough to turn as well, to see what she was seeing, and then she disappeared with a faint void of air.

Red was a far more glorious colour. Willow's hair was the fire of dawn cracking over the rim of the world, the heat of frenzied summer-love.

Willow's eyes were awash in tears even as she splayed her pale fingers over the dreadful holes in Oz's chest. He tried not to cough but blood tickled the back of his throat as it flooded his lungs. He coughed then, and a fine mist of blood struck Willow's cheek. Would he have time to tell her everything?

Blood occluded his throat, bricked his voice. Hungry darkness clambered at the edges of his vision.

Willow was trying a spell, but the muscles just wouldn't knit correctly. She sobbed as she worked, and Oz couldn't tell if it was for him or for the woman who had murdered him. Darkness ate more of his vision; pain was a dull anvil on his chest.

Oz wished he had could have lived. There was still so much to see, so much to do. So many apologies to make.

The skin wouldn't close; the edges were angry, resentful. Oz desperately called to his goddess, realizing only then that his mind was slipping away, his most important information about to be lost in the grave. What to tell her, in the mere moments that remained?

The girl had killed him with p'achi. The moment he died she would have all his knowledge, all his power. He had to stay alive, even if only to spite her, to keep her from it. Good must prevail.

Death beckoned, heaven anticipated his arrival.

He opened his mouth as if to tell Willow everything. There was just so much to tell. How to say words he could never say in life?

 _I'm sorry for betraying you, Willow. I'm sorry for putting my music, the band before you. I'm sorry for lying to you about what I did during the wolf moon. I did love you, Willow. I'll always love you._

The others, Willow. You have to save the others like me. There is this evil man, who lives at a farmhouse in California, and they're going to use him to open the seal. Guard him, Willow, until the First evil comes for him. And the seal, Willow. It's at Piatra Neamt. It's in…

Maia never told him that heaven was so exquisite.

Yet he merely glimpsed its vistas before being rudely stuffed back into his own body. He could feel Willow's arms around him, feel her chest shake as she sobbed and sobbed. Those hideous wounds in his chest had finally closed, but they would never entirely heal. The red welts would remain forever.

With that one moment in heaven, a new understanding came to him. He would never be with Willow again. For that it was too late.

The woman, his killer and Willow's lover, had to be saved. Oz hoped he could tell her exactly how to do it.

...

Iana cursed her laboured breathing and the fact that there were remarkably few places to hide in the tundra. The exhausted sun was a weak mirage in the cool blue sky; it had not set in over a month. It circled the northern Russian horizon in endless hoops, yearning for the day it could rest.

Her cloaking spell would not last long, not with that terrible gash in her ribs. Her attacker, a sunny, brown-haired girl, had come out of nowhere, but Iana was not exactly unprepared. There wasn't much to do in her little town of Pevek, so to wile away the endless midnight sun hours in the summer, and the equally endless polar night of the winter, Iana boxed.

She would never compete internationally or even nationally. Or even out of her own district, in fact. But boxing kept her tight, kept her strong, kept her prepared. If there was one thing her goddess always stressed, it was to be prepared.

Nyx didn't talk much, so when she did, Iana listened.

When she was silent, Iana didn't notice.

But she should have been paying closer attention. The awful void in her skull should have let her in on the secret: that the gods were hiding from their supplicants; that or they were also engaged in the fight for their lives.

After being scored with the knife, Iana suspected the latter.

Even after being sliced, she had still managed to knock the girl out with a flying fist to her jaw. The girl's head had snapped to the side, a trickle of blood flying from her mouth, before stumbling over the uneven mat on the floor, hitting her head with an obscene crack on the crumbling plaster wall.

Iana lived alone. Most of the time she preferred it that way.

Now, trudging through the sticky mud sloughs that were typical of an Arctic summer melt, Iana wished she had a better place to hide. This far above the Arctic Circle, high on the Kamchatka peninsula, there were no trees. It was nearly midnight, yet the sun would not set. It would peer through the air and tell the murderer where she was to be found – the ultimate tattletale.

How long would the girl be unconscious?

And could her magic last?

Weary with pain and the loss of blood, Iana crept into a hollow behind a boulder. The dirt was scraped clean by generations of reindeer using the boulder as a rubbing spot. Scattered throughout the vicinity were scores of reindeer antlers, bleached and forgotten in the midnight sun.

Her loss of breath astounded her. For a thirty year old, she was fit. Strong. And pierced by an obsidian knife whose very edge seemed honed by evil. At least she knew, now, what she was up against. Her adversary seemed so normal, so sweet, with the kind of body that Iana had always wanted to have. Surprising for her to be such a ruthless killer.

Her eyes were blue, the hard blue of an unforgiving Arctic sky and just as cold.

Even through the rush of blood in her ears, through her breathing, she could hear the girl approach, her hisses of consternation as she slipped in the mud, slapped at the flies. "C'mon now, little girl," Iana heard. That deep voice didn't belong with the girl, just like the knife didn't belong.

Her heart beating fast, her breath still rasping with her frantic escape through the slough, Iana could barely hear the words.

"If I do it quick, it won't hurt. You come on out now, and I'll do it quick, just for you."

She had recovered faster than Iana hoped. There was no other hiding place out here. Risking a quick glance behind her, Iana noticed that the girl was indeed striking out for the boulder, the knife in her hand. It still looked wrong in her fingers, like the girl wished she wasn't holding it at all. Iana turned back, slumped further in to the ground, and held her slippery side.

A scream.

The shock of sound sent Iana's heart into her teeth, and she dared to look over the boulder again. Was there someone else there to rescue her?

 _(Be serious, Iana, there is no one here but you. That's the way you wanted it, remember?)_

The girl was on the ground, the knife cast to the ground, and she was holding her head in her hands. The girl was screaming in English, and with her considerably poor translation skills (courtesy of seven seasons worth of X-Files with Russian subtitles), Iana heard the words, in a considerably lighter voice, "Get out! Get out!"

Strange. That voice belonged to her, and was a melodic extension of her.

"You're mine, you dirty little whore!"

Schizophrenia. The girl was insane.

For another ten minutes, the longest ten minutes of Iana's life, she waited while the girl screamed, her voice high and then low, her body jerking about as if possessed by an evil spirit. Iana wished she could run, but was afraid of precipitating the deep-voiced apparition, revealing her location. Besides, the loss of blood was making her weak, and her magic was fading.

For her life, Iana prayed that the girl with the sweet voice would prevail.

She did not.

Iana managed to break a couple of the girl's ribs before the knife slipped through her defences, stealing her breath with uncanny ease. As she died, she realized what a very small triumph it was, and bitterness flooded her mouth. Nyx did not save her.

...

Blessed afternoon time and Carlo could hear the shrieking of the gulls and the lapping of the waves against the shore as he sat under the awning of his small and tidy shop. It was early for a Limoncello, but he found he could not resist the cool tang of the lemon spirits, perfect for a July day in Sicily. Besides, it was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon, and soon his whole community would be enjoying a well-deserved siesta, wakening with thick tongues and blurred vision for a perfect Italian night.

The alcohol felt clean in his mouth, washing out the dregs of last night's hangover.

Sitting on the cool ground, his back against the wall of his shop, his drink perched on his gut, Carlo pulled his hat over his eyes and prepared to fall asleep.

Maybe he would dream of Emilio. Maybe Emilio would love him in this dream, the way Carlo believed he never would in life. For who would love a fat and poor warlock?

More likely he would dream of his god, that Cyclops would pass on messages or tasks for him – trivialities to fill his days with something so he would not drown in loneliness.

There had been no communication from Cyclops last night or all morning. Odd.

Carlo fell easily into that thick half alertness, his eyes mostly closed yet he believed he was awake. The brown-haired girl approaching him in his dream-like state was what a straight man would have considered lovely in a girl-next-door kind of way. Her hair was slightly damp, as if she'd just come from the shower, and a faint scent of strong soap came to him.

Odd.

Carlo opened his eyes all the way. The girl was almost to his shop. Even through the lemony scent of his bottle, he could smell the soap. It was not what a young girl would choose to put on her skin.

"Anything wrong, honey?" he asked in Italian.

The girl didn't slow or stop or do more than cock a single eyebrow. Her blue eyes flashed, sunlight on steel.

Carlo was panicking. It would be easy for him to go invisible, but on what grounds? The girl was hardly threatening. He was as closely closeted as a warlock as he was a gay man, making his position as chief supplicant of Cyclops a little hard for some to understand.

 _(They don't see what I see. They haven't fought what I've fought. They haven't looked into the blackness of hell and come out as I have.)_

What if someone saw him perform magic? The town proper was only a shout away.

But there it was. She smelled like Emilio. She smelled like a man.

And she walked funny, holding her ribs with one hand. Was that a bandage beneath her shirt?

He was struggling to rise, hating having to push out against the wall to raise his flab. The girl was walking faster. There were two rickety wood tables between them.

He was almost to his feet. His head swum with the movement, the liquor.

The girl blasted the wooden tables away without sound, without provocation. One moment they were there, poor defenceless little tables that had suffered through a million love-struck wooings, a million spilled coffees, tables that had stood beneath the twinkling skies of Sicily for over ten years.

And then they were gone, turned over and tumbled aside as if they were feathers, not tables. No girl, not even the body builder from the neighbouring city, could have done such a thing.

Carlo vanished, but not soon enough.

He may have been invisible, but he was still against the warm surface of the wall, and the knife still thrust into his heart. The girl didn't pull the knife from him, she actually twisted it inside him, but the pain was no stranger. His heart had dealt with worse than this, usually on a daily basis, as he woke up alone and dreaming of Emilio.

The girl was crying, and angry at the tears, brushing them away with a bloodied fist.

Carlo slumped again, and the bottle of Limoncello which had somehow survived his earlier precipitous rising, finally tipped. The ground drank the liquor, and the scent of clean lemons was in his nostrils as he died.

...

It was not the confident swagger that Caleb would have preferred. Instead he stumbled up the low hill, away from Carlo's corpse, his head pounding with freakish intensity. At one point he leaned over and vomited noisily over a bush, turning from side to side to see if he was noticed.

Tara was stronger than he thought. Several times over the course of the last few hours, the nurse had begun seeping into him, controlling him. It had been a whirlwind of destruction that Caleb quite enjoyed, hunting and killing chief supplicants of the gods, and the only downside was this intruder in his head.

The witch from Pevek had proved troublesome. After killing her Caleb had to return back to vineyard, to shower and bandage himself before moving on. Keeping his hands from exploring his body was an exercise in self-control.

As soon as he had his bearings, as soon as the pounding would cease he would be off to Berlin, where Edmund lived. The gift of flight would be mighty handy in the altercation to come. Too bad it had taken so long to hunt down that Iana girl. Timing was very important, and each moment he delayed, the witch had more time to gather her defences.

Caleb thought of Willow and grimaced. Far too clever, far too quick. Teamed up with the nurse imprisoned in her own head and they were formidable.

Stick to the plan. Kill the supplicants, fetch Tara's father, restore his body, and kill Tara. Then off to Romania, to kill Tara's father on the seal, and watch as the portal to hell was opened anew.

 _Don't forget the witch._

Surprise would be his greatest advantage when dealing with Willow. And perhaps a little…leverage? He looked down at Tara's body, ran his hands over her breasts, down her hips. Holding Tara hostage seemed a mighty fine backup plan.

Thinking of the nurse brought another explosion of pain to his head. He knelt on the ground, grasping at the gravely tussocks of thyme, when he suddenly noticed a pair of feminine boots standing in front of him. He lifted his gaze.

"You have no time for this, Caleb," Buffy said. "Willow has discovered everything, and blondie's dad is dead. We need to go to plan B."


	47. Donny's Dawn

**Chapter 47**

 **Donny's Dawn**

Deep down, Donny was a coward. He knew it, and hated himself for it. Tara had stood upon the porch, and let her father's fist come toward her. She didn't flinch. She always flinched! Willow's invisible hands on her waist, and she didn't flinch.

Where did she get this courage? This was not the same girl who had nearly killed herself by taking the pain of her patients in nursing school. This was not even the same girl who prepared a bloody steak for him, just the way he liked it, the day he forced a rabbit on her. This girl was brand new, birthed in the bloody chaos of Willow's world, and better for it.

After her abrupt disappearance, Donny's mind was made up. If such a cowardly and self-righteous one as his sister can be born anew, so could he. What was her birth price? Was it the demon grooves down her chest, or the tumour in her brain? He had no such wounds to pay, but he could buy his freedom in the blood of another.

His father had much to answer for. Even if one drop could be the price of each of their pains, Donny could feel free to spill it all. For his mother's years of being locked in the attic, for the abuses heaped upon his sister, and for his own unseemly tutelage in the gravedigger's world.

That Sunday afternoon, Donny stood upon the precipice of two colliding worlds. An automaton in preparing dinner, in engaging in small talk with his father, Donny could feel the tide rising in his soul. The remembered voice of the goddess warred with Donny's own desire to feel power, feel strong. The tide rose, and Donny became convinced. This one act would absolve him of everything, because he would not do it just for Tara, who was dying, not just for Anna, who was dead, but also for himself.

For was there some small portion of Donny's own beleaguered soul that deserved deliverance?

Yet since coming up with his plan, he had nearly abandoned it a dozen times. He was always wary of bringing it to the forefront of his mind, scared that his father would somehow find it there, the dark little secret that it was. His father had weird powers of late. If Donny had not known better, he would have called it magic.

He does not have our dirty blood.

After dinner he nearly abandoned it again – his father had eaten so carefully, and they rested by the fire, and he engaged Donny in small conversation, listened to his son's replies. Being fatherly, warm, and Donny felt himself sink under the spell.

Little girl baking in the tin shed.

Tara was dying. She would not benefit at all from Mr. Maclay's death. Was it really worth all this trouble to kill this man, his only surviving parent, as a gesture to his practically dead sister?

I will save her, Donny.

Who was Willow anyway, but a malingerer and a menace? What power had she to disrupt the course of the future? Tara would die, and the world was perilous, and a boy needed his father.

A tug of war in his mind, darkness combating the light, the remembered voice of the child-goddess within him somehow as strong as his father's afternoon screams. What will you choose, Donny?

What will you choose?

He could have used the influence of the child-goddess at this most crucial moment. But it was just like the guttersnipe goddess to abandon him the moment he needed her most. Everyone abandoned him in the end. Because Donny was weak. Donny was a coward. Basically, Donny sucked.

Terror is strong. It seeps into the bones with thin tendrils of menace until you are shaking with fear and cold. It freezes your hands; leaves you thin-skinned and hopeless. It whispers of every naughty deed, every secret act of maliciousness. Terror is the spawn of The First Evil, and it held Donny in its maw.

In the afternoon, Donny had formulated a simple plan. There were drugs in the shed, powerful veterinary medicines that would kill his father in his sleep, an easy murder for his tormented son to accomplish. There would be no need for rifles or shells or knives – just powder in the nightly glass of milk. Cowardly, yes, but Donny feared the power of the man's voice, feared facing him one on one. There would be no way to come off the conqueror, not without chemical assistance.

But Donny could not even drug his father, even though he meant to. The powder remained unused, and his father tooled off to bed, not knowing he was just saved by cowardice.

Donny's choice.

The night was restless, full of threatening dreams. He dreamt that his father discovered the powder, and locked Donny in the little tin shed, and Donny was left to scratch rivets in the walls as he baked in afternoon sunlight, his tongue parched and thick, his fingernails embedded in dirt, the long stink of the dead ones in his nostrils. Donny woke as he scratched himself, gasping for air.

Dawn was coming, in enough blood to birth the new world. Donny's dawn.

Donny found himself galvanized. All indecision was gone. It was no longer about Tara at all. This was between father and son.

Two sides of the same coin.

He pulled on a pair of jeans; distantly noticing they were the same as yesterday, the same rip in the crotch. He didn't care. The t-shirt smelled of oil and sweat. The rifle felt natural in his hands. How often had he dreamed of the day his father would let him load it on his own? How many hours had he spent cleaning it, polishing the stock of wood?

Such a short walk to his father's room, where dawn would strike the murderer's eyes and call him to attention. Donny would be waiting.

First, answers.

Then?

There were six rounds in the rifle. There would be bloody afterbirth of Donny's dawn, but the tide crested in his soul. As much as he could succumb to despair, Donny believed he had a place in the new world, even if his sister was not in it. This gift he would give her had two parts – he would kill his father, because Tara never could, but then Donny would live, as Tara never would. He would walk in the fields, and plant his crops, and watch the seagulls alight upon the broken wagon wheel and remember the price Tara would pay.

If she was brave enough to purchase this world with her blood, then Donny would be brave enough to live in it. This world, bought at such a price - Donny would be damned before he saw it become property of the Old Ones.

Mr. Maclay woke with a suddenness that catapulted Donny's heart into a frenzy. There seemed to be no disorientation, no lolling about in the comfortable confines of bed. One moment he was asleep, the next he was awake, his cold dark eyes trained on Donny with startled fury.

For the barrel of the rifle was in his face, Donny's pale face down the sights. Even then the man barely took Donny seriously.

The black humour of it wilted Donny's soul.

"What's going on, son?" the man asked, starting to move his hands.

Donny clicked off the safety, and the hand stopped.

"Who was the girl, dad?"

"Girl? What girl?"

She had blood on her thighs, that poor girl who baked to death in the little steel shed. This was for her, too, and all the others buried next to Tara's kitten near the dugout.

The rifle fit perfectly in the little hollow of Mr. Maclay's clavicle at his throat. It looked like it belonged there, and Donny felt a thrill of power.

 _(the same power I felt every time I hit Tara.)_

No.

The rifle drooped as Donny's face blanched. "I'm not like you," he whispered, taking a step back.

Mr. Maclay, sensing his advantage, said, "No, you're much better. You've always been a good son to me. With your mother gone, you helped me be better. Help me now, son, please. Give me the gun."

A faint whiff of fresh mown grass, and the giggle of a child. Aranaea may have been gone from his mind, but Donny felt her hands upon his soul. What was it Tara had told him that day?

 _(We are descendants of a goddess, Donny. And that's why I must die.)_

Tara was too good for this world. His father was too evil. Donny was the nothing in between.

"Son, Donny, give me the gun."

Yet this was the father voice he remembered of the far past, the soothing tones of a man who taught Donny to ride a bike, to shoot a rifle. This was the voice of the man who asked him about his day, and told stories of the crows attacking the corn. He had a scotch of an evening with this man, the day Donny turned sixteen and his father deemed him old enough for the liquor. They toiled in the fields together, smoked cigarettes together, played gin rummy together.

Soft morning sunlight streamed through the window. His father's face was clean, strong. When his father smiled, dimples would alight upon his cheeks in his gladness. Was not this world for him? Did he not work the fields, growing corn and wheat and crops of flax, a skip in his step and a song in his heart?

He did not deserve death, especially not the death Donny would have given him.

And Donny stood upon the precipice of this world, despair and uncertainty washing over him in sheets. He could not give a name to this new evil, he could not recognize the black magic of his father, a gift given by The First Evil to its chief disciple, a weapon to use for such a time as this. The magic was too strong, and Donny was weak. Donny was a coward. Donny sucked.

Donny was a boy who peed his pants in the dark watches of the night. Donny it was who set ants ablaze with a magnifying glass. It was Donny who struck his sister as ever he willed, and cursed her for her tears. Donny's hands held the spade, as earth crept over the faces of the departed, his mouth sealed and his ears deaf to their ghostly cries of justice.

It was Donny who killed Tara's cat in a fit of rage, and laid the blame elsewhere.

So he gave his father the gun.

And Mr. Maclay lovingly stroked the barrel, caressed the stock. When his eyes returned to Donny's gaze, Donny felt assaulted and lower than low. His blood was dirty, the blood of a child-goddess who cared naught for human miseries, who would use humans as her tools and throw them away when their use was finished. Anna's blood had been cleansed by the grave, just as Tara's would be. When the new day arose, would Donny alone survive, to further taint the world?

Indeed no. Donny knew, just as Jesus of Nazareth discovered, that there was no room for gods on the earth. Especially gods as lowly and wretched as he.

All he knew was that he placed the rifle in the hands of his father, fully knowing the outcome. There would be no dawn for Donny, no rebirth. Was he not his father's accomplice, his shadowy partner? His crimes were too great, and his father was the executioner.

No room for gods.

No dawn for the wicked.

Donny's every nerve trembled, yet he stood frozen. Waves of malice heaped upon him, and his father lifted the rifle to his shoulder. The night had been hot – a single sheet covered his father's lanky form, now pooled at his waist. Donny recognized every movement of the master gunman – had they not hunted coyotes just like this? His father well knew the kickback of the rifle, and he placed the stock carefully in his shoulder. The barrel lifted until Donny could see his father's eye through the sights. There was no remorse writ there. Donny could have been an errant rabbit in the fields, or a hungry coyote.

Mr. Maclay's finger would not twitch or jerk. No, he would squeeze the trigger, just as he always taught Donny to do. Once the deed was done, and Donny's blood pooled on the floor, he knew no one would mourn him. For he was weak. He was a coward. Basically, he sucked.

No dawn. The night would claim his soul, and he would be sundered from his mother and sister forever in the torments of the damned. This prison would be all he deserved, for his crimes were too great.

The bedroom door opened.

The rifle swivelled gracefully, a leonine movement born of much hunting, and Mr. Maclay squeezed the trigger. The cracking sound seemed to release Donny from the spell, but it was already too late. The shell meant for Donny's heart found Willow's instead.

So much for witchcraft. Willow looked shocked, even as redness advanced throughout her pink sweater. The second sound, that of her knees colliding with the wooden floor, brought him to his senses. She collapsed on her heels, a look of astonishment on her pale face as he wrested the gun from his father, brought it to his own shoulder, and placed the smoking hot barrel on his father's brow. The sour stench of singed flesh did not break his nerve.

Nor the sound of Tara's girlfriend falling backwards, her head making a hollow thunk on the floor.

Gravedigger indeed. Could Tara forgive him even this?

...

Romania had not been what Willow expected. Yet had anyone asked her what she had expected, she could not have elicited any more than, "Not this." The westering sun sat gently on the horizon, benignly alighting upon the gathered mass of young men and women, Slayers and the Order of the Crescent alike, too many with eagerly terrified faces. In a matter of several hours the sun would set, shying away from the inevitable battle, and the ravening wolf moon would arise.

Faith looked exactly as Willow had known she would, resplendent in tight red leather just a shade trashier than her lipstick. There was a girl behind her, dark and tall and strong, and Willow couldn't tell which of them was keener for a fight and the bloodlust there awakened. With a wry smile, Willow wondered if Faith knew what she was getting into, in battle, and in bed.

No matter her personal feelings about the dark Slayer, the work Faith had accomplished in gathering their army was formidable. There was one person there that Willow simply did not expect, and as John strode through the masses, she wished once more that she had the power to stop time, to ask what possible connection Tara's co-worker had with her dangerous underworld.

Time stopped for no one, least of all her.

John proffered his hand for her to shake, and it took everything in Willow's strength to keep from reading his mind at the touch.

 _I'd never look without asking, honest!_

It was enough to sense that there was something strange about him, something deep and vast and good, and only a glimpse of the very great love that he had for Tara.

And for…

Willow almost jerked her hand away, but stopped at the last moment, her cheeks crimson. This man, this nurse, loved Willow as well, the same profound brotherly love he had for Tara. All the time they spent in the hospice and Willow had never known.

 _Did I ever touch him after getting my gifts?_

"What did I ever do for you?" Willow had to ask, as John gently took his hand away. She racked her brain, trying to remember him beyond waking in the hospital, but she could find nothing. Yet there had to be some reason for his depth of feeling. His very skin seemed to cry to save both their lives. She had only to touch him to know it, and she wondered how no one else could see what was so obvious to her.

The man was blessed.

And Willow had no time. This mystery, like so many others, would have to wait.

A final kiss on Oz's cheek, a last hug, quickly whispered instructions to Faith. Then the scythe back in its scabbard on her back, a final look to the horizon and the rapidly setting sun, another quizzical look at the nurse in the ranks, and Willow left her small army to fight a battle of her own.

Oz had proved forthcoming, and Willow was calmer now that she knew a little of what she was up against. It was enough to know where the final battle would be, that the seal was nearby at Piatra Neamt, and that she actually had allies again. Angel had been left behind after their encounter with Beljoxa's Eye, quite chagrined to learn he was not quite invited to this fight. He was barely appeased with the whole "second front" thing, seeing as this battle would be fought on the other side of the globe. Willow was almost amazed that the vampire was taking orders from her at all; she could not have known the set of her jaw, the cool gleam in her eye, the strong determination in her very countenance. For the first time Angel looked to Willow as a leader, and treated her orders as such.

Racked by surprise after surprise, Willow barely blinked as Oz told her what role Tara's father would play in the hours ahead. As much as Willow wanted to chase Caleb across the world until he gave Tara's body back, she knew that the dark preacher would show up at the farmhouse to pick up a very valuable game piece. Willow just had to be there first.

Then she would have to come back to Romania, keeping all their enemies, especially Tara's father, away from the seal, and Faith would dispatch Caleb with the scythe, and Willow would use all her mojo, and they would once again accomplish the impossible and save the day. With Caleb gone, the seal wouldn't be opened, so Tara wouldn't have to close it. Willow's hand would not be upon the handle of the scythe as it pressed into her love's heart, spilling her lifeblood to vanquish the seal. No, there would be a little time to be with her beloved, a little time to figure out the greatest puzzle of all – Tara's cancer was a far greater apocalypse than this little blip of circumstances. If Willow had time, she could unravel the mystery of the great black wall that kept the magic of Panacea from working; was it only Caleb, or only the amulet, or some strange permutation of them all?

Poor Oz. On that soul crushing dilemma he had nothing to say, and Willow could see how he tried to keep from being jealous of Tara and the way she had Willow's heart.

It would be nearly nine AM back in California. Just past dawn, but whose?

Time to go.

Fixing the image of the farmhouse in her mind, Willow called upon Hecate and appeared on the peeling porch, for once glad she had worn this pink sweater, because Tara was still on it, her scent was still within it, her love had kissed her in this sweater, and a small and perverse part of Willow was convinced that as long as she wore this sweater she would live to kiss and hold Tara again.

There had been so much blood, so slippery under her hands as she knit Oz back together; reeling from seeing her loved one in the grip of Caleb's murdering spree. Seeing her beloved under the thrall of that wicked one was nearly more than she could bear, even for that short moment before Caleb fled. Now Willow simply had to believe that some part of her would know if Tara was truly dead and gone; hadn't their souls become one?

Besides, it was vastly apparent that no one stays dead in Sunnydale.

It was early, and she was exhausted. She stopped just shy of knocking on the door. She knew what she would do if it were Donny who answered, but what could she possibly say to the murderous snake who was their father? Could she keep from destroying him in an instant if she saw him?

Feeling a little guilty, Willow unlocked the door with a simple spell, and stole into the farmhouse. She heard movement and voices from upstairs. Well knowing the creaking vices of old houses, and unwilling to let this unfamiliar house be another enemy, Willow levitated herself and floated up the stairs, until she severed the spell and stood just outside the closed door.

Be ready for anything, Rosenberg, and thank the goddess Enyo for 3 second precognition.

She opened the door. Two faces looked at her, one through the sights of a loaded gun pointed unerringly at her own chest.

She could see how it would happen. This was no movie. The shell would thunder into her chest and blow out her heart in a single second, and there could be no healing for the dead.

No god had gifted her with the ability to stop time.

Stupid gods.

A smell of gunpowder followed the sickening crack as a bullet streaked from the barrel of the rifle. In the movies, this kind of action always took place in slow motion, as if the audience were too dull-witted to comprehend what was really happening. In reality, there is no hope, even for one gifted by the gods. Three second precognition, and she wasted them all.

The bullet thudded into her chest, mushrooming and spiraling as it severed artery and tissue, narrowly missing her heart.

Such a small mercy did not matter much.

Pain a firestorm. Eyes dim. Knees cracking on the floor a lesser pain, starlight against the sun. Conscious thought thin, blood warm.

Arrogance in gods a necessity, when there are so few pawns to play. When the very world was at stake, and thus their livelihood.

Willow could not remember calling Panacea to her, could not recall how thin the veil became between her and heaven. Willow woke with the taste of blood in her mouth, her jaw set, a cool gleam in her eye, and even the black snake in front of her, the Tara-father man-shape cursed by evil within, even he drew back from her in fear.


	48. Choices

**Chapter 48**

 **Choices**

Donny's head was reeling, as if he had just drunk a series of shots in only minutes. One minute Willow's corpse was on the floor, and the next she was standing on her feet, brushing herself off and looking at the pool of blood on the floor with distaste.

Neither of them could have known that there was so much blood yet to spill on those wooden floors. Scalding water and bleach could never erase the memory of them, and the door would always remain shut.

The red bloom on her sweater was sickening, as was the smell in the room. Donny's hand trembled on the gun that was trained on his father's forehead, the gun he fought for and won after Willow was shot. He tried to keep a wary eye on his tricksome father while reassuring himself that Tara's girlfriend was indeed alive. Within the moments of her rising, she had conjured cable-thick ropes of Smoke wrapped around his father, tying him back against the headboard of his own bed, the sheets still rucked up by his thin body. Mr. Maclay glared at them balefully, a magical gag in his mouth, even as Willow took Donny to the side of the room and whispered to him. When she was finished, Donny finally understood everything. No wonder it had felt so right, the desire to kill his father. With his blood, The First would unleash the greatest evil this world had ever known.

Not if Donny could kill him first and spill his blood where it didn't matter. With a dead disciple, the game would be won. Tara would live.

"We should kill him now," Donny said, hefting the rifle in his hands, lifting it once again to that sweet spot in his father's throat.

A gentle hand on the barrel.

"Donny," Willow said, pushing the rifle away. "As long as we hold your father captive, we know that Caleb will come here, looking for him. We need to keep your father alive until I can figure out how to get Caleb out."

"Caleb. You mean my sister."

"Yes," she gulped.

"And we can't hurt him, because he's in my sister's body."

"Yes."

"And the only reason he is in my sister's body, is because she took him out of you."

Willow looked near tears and anger crested inside him. So much of this was Willow's fault. This red-haired trollop came into his sister's life, and the vibrant caring Tara was replaced by a diseased possessed Tara who could die a violent death on a lonely hilltop on the other side of the world. If the Seal were opened, that would be her fate.

The alternative wasn't much better. She was still dying of a brain tumour, a tumour Caleb put there. A tumour she wouldn't have, if she hadn't saved Willow.

"I'll save her, Donny," Willow cried, as if she could know what was going through his mind. He wouldn't put it past her, being a witch and all. Just like filthy Aranaea, sifting through his mind, never giving him a moment's peace!

"Just how, Willow? You don't even know! This Oz guy couldn't tell you, and the gods aren't speaking to us anymore. You can't just stake her life on you figuring it out at the last second!"

It took a great deal of energy to calm down instead of lashing out with fists as well as words. It was no matter – those words seemed to strike the slim girl as sure as fists ever did. Was he becoming a new man at all? Was his dawn still rising?

Willow's jaw was tight, her eyes weary. She stank of blood and dirt, the combination of smells reminding Donny too much of the dead ones in the shed. "You should have a shower and clean up," Donny said. "Tara's room is just down the hall. She left clothes there. I'll stay with him."

Donny returned his attention to his father, not watching Willow trudge away in sorrow and defeat. It was disconcerting to see his father's mouth slightly open and nothing there. He was grateful, though, not to have to listen to his father's lies anymore. He was glad to have something to do, a choice to make, as simple as this one was. For a while, he could choose to stay, and wait.

So he did.

For a while.

He heard Willow sobbing down the hall, but tuned out that miserable noise. Then came the familiar hiss of the shower and ten minutes later Willow emerged, armed with a dangerous plan. After she left again, it was easy to stay awake and alert now that he had a mission to fulfill. His father safely tied and gagged, Donny found he didn't even have to watch him that closely. The sun continued to rise, cresting over the horizon and filling the little room with light. Willow warned him she would be as fast as she could, but that time was different where she was going.

 _(Every second is a minute in the dimension of the Eye.)_

Donny didn't really want to know. He was not interested in Willow's world – only in what it meant for his sister.

He couldn't really say how much time had passed when he noticed that there was someone else standing in the room with him. A strange lassitude had fallen over him, and his eyelids were heavy. The room was warm, a comfortable heat like a mother's womb. When he turned from watching a thin strand of saliva run from the mouth of his normally fastidious father, he saw his mother standing in the corner of the room.

Her hair was cornsilk, and she smelled of dusty summertime grass. Why, when she moved, did he also catch only the faintest whiff of that tin-shed mummified girl smell? Why, when she spoke, was he not surprised?

"Hello, Donny."

The voice of his angel mother, in front of whom Donny was weak. Donny was a coward. Basically, Donny sucked.

Always tricksy, always false, The First played on Donny's memories like a master composer, and the longer Donny stood there, gazing at the form of one so well-beloved, the hurts and malice of the past were eased, painted over with a darksome brush, covering truth with welcome vileness.

For her voice was as he always remembered, and it fit so well with the voice of his father. They had been together when he was young, and she had put daisies in her hair, and laughed in the cool evenings. Stories at bedtime for he and his sister, always with happy endings, the benevolent face of his father watching from the doorway, a pipe in his hand, the smoke wreathing his head like a god of old. The two of them, his parents, so strong and fair, that Donny felt small, insignificant near them, incapable of their lofty speech, watching their faces from afar, feeling always the power of their love for him and for each other.

"What have you done to your father?" She bent near, as if to kiss the bound man on his brow, her lips ghostly and inconsequential. Tight yearning filled Donny's chest with a powerful ache of loss – so many years gone, so much lost in the grave.

"I – I," Donny stuttered, cursing himself for his cluttered tongue. Years since he stuttered, why now when he wanted so badly to impress her?

Willow should have told him more about The First Evil, and its penchant for using mothers. Robin Wood would have recognized it, as would Buffy. But could even their knowledge, combined with Willow's spells, have kept Donny safe?

He was, after all, young, and alone, and motherless.

Against the force at work in that tiny room he had no power. He would bend like a reed in the wind.

And what she was asking was such a simple, little thing. Free his father. Dissolve the spells. Save his sister. And save the world. Donny the Great, bowed to on bended knee by the multitudes of people he had saved, and among them the woman who would become his wife, and together they would work their magic on the world, to heal its sorrows and pains. For he, too, could work magic. Was Donny not also of Aranaea's dirty blood? The world to come would be a great one, with every luxury he was denied. The taste of the world would be sweet on his lips, the noise of his praises a symphony to his ears, the touch of fine silks and linens under his hands.

No world Willow could offer could be so sweet.

"I stayed with your father my whole life," Anna finally said. "Doesn't that count for anything? Believe me, and help us do this."

So he worked the spell, with herb, with potion, and unknown words. His mother was a fantastic teacher, though he wished he could touch her. He tried to once, and his hand passed through her incorporeal body as if it were merely light and illusion, leaving a strange scent of fell fumes.

The last word spoken, the last herb tossed upon the bed, and the bonds of air, which held his father tied, were loosed. Donny the wizard. Donny the triumphant.

Donny the fool.

The illusion was finally broken. For his mother cackled, and his father laughed in derision, and he remembered what he had promised Willow. To keep his father safe, until Caleb came for him.

No powder, no magic. So when his father lunged for the weapon, and Donny wrenched it from his grip, pointed the shocking end one last time at his father's head, and squeezed the trigger just as he'd always been taught, he could have said it was in self-defence.

At that close range, bits of gore and bone gouged Donny's cheeks. He remembered his sister, trapped within Caleb's body forever now, and wept.

Half a world away Carlo lay dead, and The First appeared to Caleb in the form of Buffy, and whispered new instruction. By Donny's hand, the first plan was over. Time for Plan B.

The restaurant. The body. The gift of Nyx. And p'achi.

 _(Open the mouth)_

The world still would scream, as the skies flowered with demons, and the oceans budded with leviathans deep, and the minions of the world schooled on destruction and nursed with fell bloods and flesh would arise to take back what had once been theirs alone.

...

Willow had fallen to pieces in Tara's closet. Sobbing on the floor, she pulled down hanger after hanger of clothes, pressing them into her face, breathing deeply of Tara's scent. Soon the sobs turned into great tearing gasps of pain and loss, a pain far more deep than her bullet wound, for as the wound healed instantly she knew this would not. It had all become too much for her, too fast. Narrowly saving Oz, seeing John in the crowd, getting shot in the chest and barely surviving – this was not one of Willow Rosenberg's better days. She knew so much, but still it wasn't enough. Oz couldn't get any more information out of Maia – the gods had disappeared and no one knew why. As optimistic as any Scooby had a right to be, especially a Scooby who narrowly averted death by rifle, Willow knew that if they followed the plan, she would have no need to kill her beloved with the scythe. Imprisoning her father was the best life insurance policy Tara could have found.

Yet Willow forced herself to consider the alternative – a necessary practice after seven years of Scoobyage. There was a possibility that the Seal could open, and then Tara would have to stand upon it, and Willow would have to kill her with the scythe, after which Willow would surely go insane.

The world could ask no more of her than this. The price had already been too high to pay.

Why couldn't you give me a place to come home to?

A shocking, dangerous world, but one she shared with friends. For a time. Recent moments with Tara seemed to make up some of her earlier losses; her sorrows tempered by joys she thought never to experience. Beyond the Seal there was a shadow and a great black wall. The cancer made every moment finite; there would be no more of them.

Durians and morningstars and a kitten-abraded couch.

Snuffling into the clothes, Willow danced with despair. The irresistible scent of Tara seemed all around her, permeating her skin, her bones. After Tara was dead, Willow could come here, and sit in the closet, and go mad. It would be a good choice after all the other ones had gone so wrong.

No more backups. No more monster-fighting team. If Willow was going to pull off the impossible, she'd do it on her own. The human encyclopedia she used to have in Giles was utterly gone – where could Willow go to find the answer to the biggest question of all?

How do I save Tara?

She gathered some clothes and headed to the shower, her mind blazing with equal parts loss and an insatiable drive for knowledge. When she emerged ten minutes later, her mind was made up. It was a dangerous course, but it would have to do. Donny seemed reluctant at first, but he agreed to watch his father. There could be no contact between them once she left. She would just have to be quick.

Willow didn't want to use Angel again to open the portal to Beljoxa's Eye; the vampire was a little peeved at her latest orders. But Lorne was just as green-skinned and amiable as she remembered. The kindly host of Caritas took in her earth-shaken appearance and her request with a single glance, likely reading her tumbled and desperate face as well, and immediately conjured open the demonic dimension of Beljoxa's Eye for her. Stepping into the windy dimension, conscious now of every second that passed, Willow swiftly made her way to the tentacled conglomeration that was the oracle.

The Eye was less than pleased.

"This isn't a frakkin' Baskin Robbins, toots. Why are you here again?"

Willow refused to be intimidated by a giant eye, especially when the scythe was loose in the scabbard on her back. "I want some answers."

"And I seriously want a day at the spa. It doesn't look like either of us is getting what we want now, though, are we? Now beat it."

"Unless you help me, the whole world is going to end." Willow didn't think she'd get much of a response, and the Eye's next words held her true.

"You make it sound like the end of the world. It's happened before. It will happen again, whether you get my help or not."

Where was Buffy when Willow really needed her? There were times for sweet-talking and cajoling, but there was also a time for well-directed violence. These underworld types always seemed to take violence seriously. At least Willow wasn't in her battered pink fluffy sweater any more. Yet even in Tara's dark clothes, her jaw tight and that cool gleam in her eye, she wouldn't get much out of the Eye.

But no gods gifted her with the ability to stop time. It made her rather desperate. "I'm running out of time, and the gods aren't answering me!" she cried.

"They have problems of their own, toots. In case you haven't noticed, the assault on heaven has already begun. Do you think The First is only interested in your dimension? He wants to rule all dimensions. If you plan on doing anything about it, you better get a move on. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

"Aren't you worried about them coming for you?"

He wants all dimensions, to cast every world into shadow.

"Hey, this isn't exactly prime real estate here. I can just see the listing: dark, windy dimension twenty feet long by twenty feet wide, inhabited by a giant eye. They don't care about me."

Somehow, Willow knew he was bluffing. She suddenly felt winded, as if she'd been punched in the gut.

"How do I save Tara?"

Willow had never heard an eye sigh in exasperation before. "First, you need to trust her. She knows more than you think she does. And you must also put your trust in those you've unknowingly helped in the past. You know, the whole Circle of Life thing? One good turn deserves another? Now toodle. Oo."

Out of all things he could have said, this was most preposterous. Trust someone she's unknowingly helped? There were uncounted dozens she knew of after seven years of hell-breaking Scoobyage. But those unknown?

"How am I supposed to know who that is?"

"Could that possibly be another question? I believe I'm done with the questions, and I believe you have work to do." Suddenly all the eyes snapped shut, but before Willow could gather her breath for one last try, the eyes flew open, all of them filled with inexpressible horror. "Tara's father is dead and Tara is dying! If you are going to save any of us, go!"


	49. Nyx

**Chapter 49**

 **Nyx**

By the time Caleb had finished killing all those innocent people, Tara wished she were dead, that she had died before now, that she had never met Willow, anything to keep the blood from crusting her hands. Trapped within a tiny box in her own mind, she knew they were not her actions, that she was being used, being forced, all over again. Yet they were her hands, the same hands that washed a patient's hair, or read a copy of 'Runaway Jury' or held Willow's face as they kissed. Her hands, holding the knife, thrusting into body after body.

Althanea had trusted her. The British witch had come all this way and Tara had been only a burden to her, and now the witch was dead. Tara's hands. All she prayed was that Althanea knew the truth that Tara would never have hurt her. That Althanea was now with her daughter in heaven.

But even there the war has begun.

The killing spree did not stop. Using the stolen gift, Caleb jumped across the ocean, and as soon as Cassandra was dead, Tara could feel the knowledge of the seer filtering into her mind.

Oz. The little man was somehow exactly as she expected him to be, but neither she nor Willow had known how important he was. As the knife twisted inside his body, Tara was very nearly screaming in horror, bashing against the walls of her fleshy prison. When her red-headed lover suddenly teleported into the room, a tidal wave of inexplicable devotion crested through her, underlined with remorse at what her hands were doing through Caleb's bidding. How Tara desired to punch through Caleb's block and get control of her body once more, in time to save Oz, in time to be with Willow, in just enough time to do what they needed to save the world!

Because the world of durians, and kitten abraded couches, and little black rabbits so desperately deserved to be saved.

The act of seeing Willow gave Tara a much-needed shot of hope, and she very nearly broke through Caleb into her own body. While Oz lay dying under the knife, his knowledge swam before her eyes, but Willow intervened before Caleb could get it all. Furious at the intrusion, yet fearful of Willow, Caleb fled before her lover, and Tara exulted in the knowledge that her self-conscious and talkative girlfriend could frighten the Chief Priest of Danzalthar.

How her heart ached to see her girlfriend so ravaged, so tired and forlorn! What must it have been like for Willow to see Tara killing her ex-boyfriend, to see the hands that caressed Willow's body during the night doing such unspeakable and horrifying things? Tara prayed that Oz survived, and that he and her girlfriend knew without a doubt that it wasn't really her.

Tara remained an optimist. For just a moment there, when the shock of seeing Willow was racing through Caleb's mind, Tara almost regained control. It was a small reminder, but it was enough. Tara wasn't alone, wasn't really a prisoner. She was part of a team, a powerful team

 _(a monster fighting team!)_

So when they tracked down that lovely Russian witch, Tara was ready. Using years of mental skills taught by her mother, Tara was able to punch through the block for moments at a time.

Unfortunate, though, that she still happened to feel whatever her body was feeling in those moments, and that unconsciousness as a prisoner was much the same as unconsciousness otherwise. That girl had the most powerful left hook she had ever seen.

Caleb revived too fast, and Tara was tiring and wounded. Caleb took them back to the vineyard for cleanup and to bandage their broken ribs. There was a moment of panic in the shower when he paused to run his hands over her body, but he was also operating on a tight schedule. The First came to him there in the vineyard, and Tara was taken aback to see Buffy come to such hideous life. Caleb had failed with Oz, Willow had saved him, and now the witch had discovered about Tara's father.

What about my father?

The prison suddenly tightened, and Tara could only watch as they arrived in Sicily. That kindly, sleep sodden man had no chance, and his murder was yet another noose around Tara's soul.

I will stop you.

Concentrating as she'd never concentrated before, Tara withdrew into herself, condensing, burrowing

 _(I am the Kraken)_

before exploding outward as hard and as fast as she could.

Caleb fell to the ground in pain, and Tara exulted even as she felt the pain as well. The longer she could keep him here, the more time Willow would have. Caleb seemed able to keep his own mind separate from hers – she could glimpse mere inklings of his plans, not enough to change the course of their destiny.

But then Buffy came and spoke the words that changed Tara's world. It was obvious who they were speaking of. Her father was dead. She was almost sickened by the wave of relief that washed over her soul, but then she felt a strong pang as she thought of Donny. What would this mean for her blighted brother?

She had no more time for such thoughts. Caleb felt scared and obstinate; emotions so strong she could almost taste them. This Plan B, whatever it was, scared him to death.

"I don't want to die again," he whispered after Buffy departed.

 _(I don't want your blood anymore. The Seal craves the blood of another.)_

Her father. They were going to use her father to open the Seal. But now that he was dead

 _(My father is dead.)_

they would have to use Caleb instead. There was no time to find another Priest of Danzalthar who was indoctrinated enough and willing to pay the price. Unless Willow found a way to stop them, Tara knew it was her task, as she always knew it would be, to take her father's place on the seal, and let her blood destroy it forever.

 _(I am dead.)_

Willow would hold her on that seal, and with the scythe open up her veins, and they would embrace each other on an expanding pool of blood. Heaven would open the gate for her, and her mother would bring her home.

Oz was alive. He would care for Willow.

And Donny?

 _(Will he live?)_

The Seal required more than just the blood of Aranaea, or else even Donny could have been the one to close it. Her whole life had been a preparation for this single ritual; every ounce of pain she had taken, taken, taken from everyone else in order to share her healing magic would be proof of her godhood. From her birth her mother and Aranaea had conspired to give her the worst life imaginable, to deepen her capacity to heal. The capacity to heal was her blood debt, the sacrifice that sanctified her. And it was Willow's love that kept her from becoming embittered about her role in this life, the role she accepted the day Willow was wheeled into her hospice room.

Tara had known her part to play. She was the lamb. She would be sacrificed upon the altar of the world, to save the world. That day could have been long away; they could have camped near the Seal for years, keeping it from being opened by the unrighteous – there would be no need to close what had not been opened.

With her father's death, it was now the responsibility of the dark preacher to open the Seal, and Tara could not figure out how to keep him from it. He was inside her – if she opened her veins here and now to kill him, he would merely jump to another host. If he somehow was exorcised from her, she could try to kill him then, but what power had she against him, weak and diseased as she was?

And how to find Willow again when all this madness was said and done? Would destiny bring them together again, at just the right place and time to avert the apocalypse, or would Caleb keep her from her beloved forever?

What a strange confluence of rites was needed to keep the world safe from the Old Ones, from The First. How long had she been upon this path, without even knowing it?

 _(From my birth.)_

Donny saved her life once, the night he forced her near a cow. Did he know he was acting on their orders, to preserve her precious blood until the time came for it to be spilled?

 _(You may not think so, Tara, but I love you! How many sisters do you think I have?)_

Her mother died. And now her father was dead. Tara would be slain upon the seal to save the world. Could Donny choose to live, or would he drink his sorrows to the grave? Once her brother was dead, either through the long silence of years or the jaundiced agony of a drunkard, the blood of Aranaea would be forever washed away. The secrets of her family would be swallowed in his grave.

Deep in her prison, deep in her thoughts, Tara barely noticed as they materialized in the front room of an abandoned restaurant. The air was stale and thick with dust; the rising sun set the motes ablaze with light. Had she been herself, she would have stopped to appreciate the subtle beauty.

Instead, she walked through a swinging door into the kitchen, the cold air settling on her skin like an icy blanket. Rippling with gooseflesh, Tara watched as she drew closer to the clothed body on the slab, recognizing the preacher. So cold, so still, he looked nearly harmless in his black clothes, the white spot at his throat, but it was easy for Tara to remember whom he really was. From the moment she first saw him inside Willow's mind, blasting away the tree and imprisoning her, she had known he was far more menacing than he seemed.

More than a preacher

 _(the long preacher, the dark hand, the silent might)_

more than a hound of The First, Caleb was evil personified, and she hated being a part of him. Would she ever be able to rid herself of him?

He would not let her live. Why was she here? Was there some magic he was about to perform?

The Bringers in the room, nearly a dozen of them, bowed before her and scurried out of her way. She watched as Caleb touched his inanimate body on the table. "Rack did good work," he said, tilting the head this way and that. "Can't even tell that the Slayer split me in two."

She turned to face the Bringers. "Now y'all understand your orders, right? The minute that I'm renewed, this girl is to be captured and killed. Immediately. Under no circumstances is she to leave this room alive."

Their star-crossed eyes nodded mutely, and they all drew out their silver daggers. The hiss of the steel leaving the sheaths was loud in the room.

Tara was panicking. There would be no rescue here. No Willow to save the day, no Althanea or even Angel. If she wanted to leave this room alive, she'd have to do it on her own power.

At least she had the knife.

But Caleb pre-empted that as well, withdrawing the knife and placing it firmly in the body's lifeless hand. He'd use it to kill her the moment he awoke, taking every ounce of her power.

There was no amulet around her neck.

How much of Caleb's stolen power was hers?

 _(I am the Kraken.)_

She was shuffling closer to the body on the table. It actually smelled clean, as if the clothes were freshly laundered. The Bringers closed the circle around her. Doubt swam into Tara's mind, but it wasn't her doubt. Caleb was swimming in a sea of fear and dismay and doubt enough to drown him, and he couldn't keep her from feeling it as well.

The First didn't always honour its soldiers, or its word. Rack's dead body testified of it. He had survived his encounter with Willow in the gas station, only to be brought down by Bringer knives at the orders of Buffy/The First. Caleb knew it, and feared it, feared it so deeply that Tara knew it too.

No strawberries for the warlock, or time to enjoy them. Time was ever their enemy.

Especially now.

Her body still firmly under his control, she bent down, closer and closer to his face. In her prison, Tara squirmed with revulsion as she pressed her lips against Caleb's cold and dead mouth.

Her hands gripped Caleb's shoulders and she pressed down harder, using her tongue to open Caleb's mouth. From somewhere deep behind her sternum rose a ball of pure energy; it climbed up her windpipe, scrambled past her throat, invaded her mouth and disappeared into his through their joined lips.

 _(Nyx.)_

Tara's consciousness surged back into her body even as Caleb coughed once. A thousand thoughts clambered for space at this precise moment – did she have Caleb's stolen gifts, where was Willow, why was her father dead, and what of Donny – how odd that she thought of the mouldering wagon wheel, and the smell of her mother's hair.

 _(Go home!)_

She didn't know whose voice commanded her, but she felt nearly compelled to obey. Was she just some tool in the hands of the vacant gods, were they using her without explaining why? How much influence did they have upon her anyway?

 _(the power of the gods is limited to the power of the vessel)_

She closed her eyes as the first Bringer knife stabbed her, deep in her left side. The pain was immediate and consuming, but not enough to fell her. Tara called to the magic, and the flood of power that rose through her veins made her inklings clear. She felt another knife, and then two more slam inside her as she went invisible, and the last thing she saw before teleporting away was Caleb's newly resurrected body rising from the table.

Why was it that she was compelled to go home, the source of all her childhood misery, a place of hidden secrets and ne'er forgotten ills? She was but a child there, powerless, afraid, alone.

 _(Do you really think so little of yourself?)_

No.

Her father's fist coming towards her, and she didn't flinch. She would have, once. Not any longer. Under the rays of Willow-light, she had blossomed as a rose. It was only as she experienced true love and devotion that she understood the depth of her task, and the fountains of her courage.

 _(This time you will be the rabbit. You are my sacrifice to save the world. You are the lamb.)_

Yet as strong as her heart-ties to Willow, her newly spilt blood cried for home. Could Tara have known that was where the final altercation would be, where all the threads of her life would come together? Her mother, father, brother and girlfriend, all in the same room at last.

Tara instantly landed on a wooden floor, the taste of blood in her mouth. She could see the familiar checked bedspread of her father's room, could see her brother's bare feet standing on the floor. She opened her mouth, intending to say something, her blood was flowing too thickly, and the magic was suddenly waning, and she reappeared on the floor just as she screamed. The pain was suddenly a wildfire within her, exploding through all her senses until she could do nothing but scream.

Those screams would haunt her brother to his dying day.

They were not screams of night-terror, thin and shrill, nor screams of movie mill horror on the big screen. They were screams that clambered past blockades of blood in her throat, they gurgled through her punctured lungs, and they hitched in the middle as she desperately tried to breathe in a sea of wet red. Gurgling, choking screams beyond horror, beyond pain.

 _(Mother!)_

A Bringer knife was still sticking out of her side. Her fingers curled on the floor as she tried to get up, but the room was swaying like a funhouse. Through eyes blurred with tears, she saw Donny's feet come closer, walking over the bits of bone and gore that used to make up her father's head. The rifle hung easily from his hand.

Willow was nowhere to be seen.

Tara lifted her head from the floor, a thin stream of blood running from her mouth. The barrel of the rifle was now directly between her eyes. It seemed to run forever up to his hard blue eyes, as he cocked the safety.

"Is it you?" Donny asked, and the rifle barrel now touched her forehead. Her father had been killed with it less than five minutes ago.

Tara coughed blood; it misted in an arc along the wooden floor. The tiny beads of red caught the timid rays of sun coming through the window, glistening.

Beyond the window would be the willow tree, and the wagon wheel, and the dust of her childhood. The wagon wheel remembered her, and remembered her mother, and would mourn them both. In an age long hence it, too, would finally moulder into the dust, and be glad of it.

The pain had subsided a little. Tara felt thin. The light upon the floor was growing with intensity, with beauty.

"I kissed him," Tara whispered. "I kissed Caleb." Her tongue felt heavy and awkward in her mouth, coated with blood and filth. She wished she could die with the taste of Willow on her lips, not this soil.

Her fingertips were cold. Blood soaked the bandage about her ribs, and she almost blessed its warmth.

So this is what dying felt like. So elastic, so thin. Where was the sweetness? Hadn't they all tasted so sweet before death? Where was the soulfire?

The light growing on the floor trembled and shimmered, almost pulsating.

"Will you live, Donny?" Tara tried to ask. The words may have gotten past the obstruction of blood in her throat. She wasn't sure.

 _(I can't die now!)_

If only Donny would come closer, she could heal herself. The amulet was gone. Caleb's stolen magic was hers, too. No doubt her brother thought she was still under Caleb's thrall. Why wouldn't he move?

The barrel finally was pulled away from her face, set carefully down on the ground. Tara noticed that her cheek was warm; she had put her face back down on the ground, in a pool of her own blood. Each breath was thin; sucking through her dying lungs. It seemed as if Donny was finally coming closer to her, his hands now on the ground as he knelt by her, his eyes blurry in his tears or hers, but all of this was swallowed by the expanding white light.

There was a wheat field, a broken wagon wheel, and Anna's golden hair. As children, they had biked along these fields and shared secrets, but never the ones that mattered most.

The sweet taste of nectar filled Tara's soiled mouth. In the distance, she could hear someone screaming her name. Her body was distant – she could barely feel her arm caught awkwardly underneath her as she was pulled into someone's lap.

It was the gift of Nyx. Tara could have laughed at the irony of it. If only the Bringers hadn't killed her, not now. Willow had been given a gift from Nyx; no doubt it was to restore her to life after her eventual death upon the Seal. That poor witch from Russia; small wonder Caleb had hunted her so ruthlessly. It was what would bring his body back to life. Rack had done what he could; only the witch's stolen gift could do the rest.

That witch was dead, even as Tara was dead. Even if Willow could save her now, her fate upon the Seal still awaited her. Even if Caleb could be stopped before opening it, there was her cancerous tumour as well. Any way she looked at it, her future could be summed up in a cold grave. Was there any other god with the power to resurrect her twice?

 _(Osiris.)_

Her body was being turned over. Tara saw a flash of Donny's eyes.

 _(Too late, Donny.)_

The highway of light beckoned. She could see the torment of Donny's soulfire behind his eyes. The sweetness flooded her throat, coursed down her veins, stilled and broken. The veil trembled; she could see her mother standing there with open arms. Tara chose.

The elastic snapped.

But heaven was not what it should have been. As had been discovered by the supplicants of the gods, the assault on heaven had already begun.

Only by witnessing the devastation of this one place that should have been safe, been protected, did Tara realize the depth of her role.

Just how many worlds would Tara have saved by becoming the lamb?


	50. Blood Debt

**Chapter 50**

 **Blood Debt**

He came to life swiftly, rejoicing in his body, feeling the thrill of blood through his limbs. Noise in the echoing kitchen was distant, faint through the thudding of his heartbeat. Caleb smelled blood, took a deep breath, and coughed even as he smiled.

The sound of a Bringer's knife in warm flesh was a grace note in the symphony of his astonishing career. The first slam, and Caleb remembered the girl he killed, the girl who had trusted him as a preacher, years dead now. Another ripping noise, and Caleb remembered the hiss of singed flesh of the Potential he had seared with his heated ring, the feeling of her stomach quivering on the edge of his knife as he asked her to take a message to Buffy, the sound of her body striking the road. At the tearing fabric and groaning female voice, Caleb remembered the crunching sound of the Guardian's neck the night he was killed.

Caleb relished all these sounds, harmony and counterpoint alike, a small smile lighting upon his face before he allowed himself to open his eyes and look upon the girl.

But the girl was gone.

Sightless, star-crossed eyes lifted to meet him, their daggers dripping blood in the empty air. Their faces would have held chagrin if they had been capable.

Rage clouded him, filled his every pore with blackness, with energy. It seemed he couldn't trust anyone to do anything right. Through the cowering mob strode Buffy, but he didn't see her as the ghost of the Slayer. He saw instead the leering demonic face of The First, his true and only master.

Lifting his head, raising his arms, the lights in the kitchen exploded as the First loomed over him, the great and terrible force to whom he had pledged his life and sanity. "I am your vessel," Caleb whispered.

With a mighty boom, the power of The First slammed into him, soaking into his skin, traveling along his veins with his blood, filling his every inch with force and magic. Opening his eyes to the sparks along the ceiling from the shattered lights, he felt the crackles of lightning cross his fists. His eyes were dead black pools of maddened hope.

Hope. No longer doubting. His course was clear.

Confirm that blondie was dead. Kill the red-haired witch. Open the seal, and pray that the rewards promised would be given.

Everlasting life. Young women. Enough blood to drown the world.

Were these paltry wishes so wrong?

...

There had been many nightmarish moments in Willow's unnoticed career. Close calls, friends dying, monsters and demons and robots, the end of the world seven times (she would always dread the month of June). None of them were remotely as horrible as this.

Her heart an icy ball of fear, acting on the Eye's tempestuous command

 _(Tara's father is dead and Tara is dying! If you are going to save any of us, go!)_

Willow teleported into the tiny attic room moments before Caleb, just enough time to see but not comprehend the devastation around her.

Tara's father was dead, his head obliterated.

The rifle was cast to the floor, lying in a sticky pool of blood. There was an arc of blood misted on the floor. It caught the rays of sunlight like rubies.

Tara was in Donny's lap, her arm awkwardly caught underneath her, and he was rocking her back and forth, crying. He did not look at Willow, though he must have heard the sob well up in her throat, the sob that clambered past Willow's forsaken lips to pierce the stillness with her grief. He rocked his sister and said to the uncaring air, "I always told her she would rack up the blood debt. I always told her she would eventually have to pay."

Looking up, his bleary eyes glared at Willow and she nearly staggered back by the amount of malevolence in them. "I wish I had the power to kill you," he said.

He didn't need to. Tara was dead, so half of Willow was dead. The rest of her would follow her lover eagerly to the grave.

There was a familiar looking dagger sticking out of Tara's back, and dark wet holes at her back and sides. The stink of fresh blood was everywhere.

She could have checked Tara's pulse to be sure, or put her hand near Tara's mouth to feel the warm exhalation of air, but the stillness said it all. Too many times in her life she had seen dead bodies. They were more than simply inert – the light had gone from them. Willow had never been proficient at reading auras, but that moment she looked at Tara's dead body, she knew her own heart had been extinguished.

It was all over. Here, in a little room in a farmhouse in California, the war against the First had been lost. It was only a matter of time before the Seal was opened to admit the armies of Turok-Han. She would spend what little remained of her embittered life in a blood feud with them. They would eventually kill her, and the Old Ones would regain this world.

Heaven would fall soon after.

Beljoxa's Eye would not be safe in his windy dimension. The First would stop at nothing to conquer all worlds, all dimensions. The Eye knew no futures – he would die as everyone else would.

That's what Tara's sacrifice would have done. This one small woman would have saved them all, if Willow had made the right choices.

Willow took one step to her love, her light, her life, and came face to face with a grinning, maniacal preacher.

He had appeared with suddenness, the knife in his hand, but Willow was far beyond being surprised. With one smooth movement that Buffy would have been proud of, Willow drew the scythe from her shoulder scabbard and made for his head.

He had lightning reflexes of his own, and jumped clear of the whirling blade, landing behind the bed where Mr. Maclay's body slumped in dead repose. Willow quickly launched a volley of force globes, which the preacher dodged with uncanny ability. Caleb stood in the corner, not even breathing hard, and Willow stalked toward him, the scythe easy and ravenous in her hands.

He glanced toward Willow's fallen angel, inert on the floor with ragged holes in her clothes, at Donny who was making for the discarded rifle on the floor. Willow shot a force globe at the preacher, which he evaded by teleporting to the other corner of the room.

Lifting his hands, his eyes dead black, Willow felt the concussion of air as the preacher sent a shattering bolt of crackling lightning to Tara's dead body. The force of it sent Donny flying against the wall. Tara's body was lifted from the floor, crackles of lightning passing from her heels to her head, contorting her body in a bow before she was slammed back into the floor. The force of it would have killed her, had she been alive.

Silence for just a moment, and Willow could see everything. Maclay's dead body on the bed, Donny slumped against the wall, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth, a dazed expression on his face. And Tara, still dead, still inert, gone down the pathway to the sun that each of her most loved ones had already taken.

Willow. Doomed to live.

To fight.

 _(It's a good fight, Buffy. And I want in.)_

Screaming, roaring, making some banshee of sound that could never express the horror and rage she was feeling, Willow conjured lightning of her own, a web of crackling white light that would sear away his flesh and burn out his eyes. He had his own debt of blood to pay. The light sizzled through the air, as if she were gouging the very space it passed through as it sought

(the long preacher, the dark hand, the silent might, the ruler of this and all other worlds).

The preacher didn't move fast enough; the lightning seared bright white around his body before it finally was absorbed by the great black energy that gave him his might and strength. There was the thin smell of burnt clothing, but Willow had no time to exult. Caleb shifted into invisibility, then called out, "Jes makin sure she's dead! See you at the Seal!"

With that, he was gone. The entire altercation had lasted no more than two minutes. Willow stood there, trembling, staring at the void of space where Caleb was, her body hollowed by emotion, aware of the dead bodies in the periphery of her vision.

One was wearing a black sweater with ragged wet holes, brown hair crusted with blood, the thin scar lines on her face paler even than the paleness of death.

 _(demon grooves)_

Donny limped and crawled to the rifle. Trembling fingers picked it up, and for the second time that morning, Willow had a rifle pointed at her heart. After having her back broken by Tawarick, after having the tunnel collapse on her, after catching the fallen amulet a moment too late, after stepping into a pool of Althanea's blood and then narrowly saving Oz's life, having been shot with this very same gun just hours earlier, Donny now had little impact on her. She almost could have wished that Donny could kill her with it, but it was vastly apparent that she couldn't die. The gods and the Watcher's Council both would use her until she was a mere marionette, pinned to the freaking Wheel for all time, doomed to live. Only when her lifeblood and magic were spent would she be sent to Heaven, and could its pleasures save her from her bitterness?

Tara was dead. She had followed Buffy, Xander, and Giles into the grave, from which there was no more returning.

The world was doomed, and Willow's heart with it.

Willow dropped the scythe. It made a hard thunk on the ground. Her feet impossibly heavy, Willow took the two steps to Tara's side, and Donny begrudgingly moved away, the rifle dangling from his hand.

It was when she touched Tara that her grief exploded.

Rocking the body back and forth, tears streaming down her cheeks, Willow tried to contain her agony, to box it up, save it for another moment when the world didn't need saving. There was still Caleb to be stopped. There was still Faith who needed the scythe. There was still a world to save, even a world so mundane and pitiful now that Tara wasn't in it.

Willow couldn't speak, couldn't voice anything past the guilt lining her throat. She had gone to the Eye to get answers, to discover once and for all how to save her most beloved, and what does the Eye do? Tell her riddles!

 _(You need to trust her. She knows more than you think she does.)_

Tara had known something. Somehow she had brought Caleb back to life, restored his soul. If only Willow knew how she had done it!

These trivialities filled Willow's mind, and she let it, otherwise the great yawning void in her soul would have ripped her apart. "I thought you were going to save her," Donny was saying.

Tara had known.

"Did she say anything...before?" she gulped, touching the thin scars running down Tara's cheek, brushing the hair away from her ears.

"Before she died, she said she kissed the preacher."

Memories and images flashed into Willow's mind and she gasped aloud.

 _(A time of great despair will come upon you, yet all you must do is remember this. I have her heart, Willow. He cannot touch it.)_

 _(Even after all this, it may not be enough.)_

 _(I am Nyx, the goddess of sleep and death, and the gift I give to you will be secret until the very moment you need it.)_

Kiss me, Willow.

Not letting her heart leap with joy for she could not bear being wrong again, Willow pulled Tara's body further onto her lap. Smoothing away the bloodstained hair, Willow bent down and covered Tara's lips with her own.

It felt wrong, to be kissing those beloved lips without Tara kissing her back. The lips were barely warm. Tara was dead, her lips were dead, and her body was breaking down, as if aching to join the mouldering wagon wheel outside, as if wanting to bond with the dirt of the grave.

A thick coruscating ball of energy seemed to rise from Willow's pelvic bones, expanding as it traversed her chest, and Willow wept as she felt it lift higher, past her grief-thickened throat, into her soiled mouth, and finally through her lips and into Tara.

Tara, my love, come back to me. I beg you, come back to me.

...

Heaven was darker than Tara imagined. She had no expectations of clouds and cherubs and pearly gates. She wanted heaven to be an extension of earth, the beauties of the world translated and purified. She wanted to have bees among the roses with no fear of being stung. She wanted to see a lion resting with a lamb, to see the elderly with the same joy of life as children.

Instead, heaven was dark.

And multitudes were waiting for her.

Avenues were thronged with the heavenly host, their faces tight and resolute. They watched Tara and her mother from afar, as they walked hand in hand down veiled streets, the sky continuing to darken as if threatened by unknown storms.

The gods were busy; with Buffy's resurrection a hole was made, with Tara's blood the hole would have been sealed.

Tara had no more blood to shed. Heaven will fall.

But the faces that looked out from the crowds held no remonstrance. As Tara walked with her mother, she saw the forms of the newly murdered ones, Cassandra, the witch from Russia, the kindly warlock of Sicily. With their hands lifted they hailed her, their smiles spoke of their forgiveness, their souls replete with knowledge that they still had work to do, a cause to fight for. With their power and the power of all departed ones they would keep heaven a refuge.

Until the demons and the lords of The First Evil would assault this place, and with knives more terrible even than p'achi they would deconstruct the souls of the righteous; riven in pieces there could be no peace. Not even in heaven.

Tara slowly walked among them, knowledge filtering into her mind. That was what she was going to do. That was what she chose to do, that day she stood by Willow's bed, holding her blanketed feet in her soft, caring hands, and said aloud to the heavens, "I choose to."

Knowledge was no balm to her frenzied soul. Especially when she saw Althanea step forward from the masses, side by side with the girl who could only be her daughter. Tara's throat thickened with grief as she remembered the slickness of the blood on her hands, the feeling of Althanea's heart quivering on the edge of the knife.

With a low cry, she ran to the British witch, who enfolded her in her arms. As Tara began to weep, Althanea smoothed her hair and murmured into her ear, "Ssh, my brave girl."

But Tara couldn't quite control herself. All her life she had been alone, had hardly ever felt love. To be here, in heaven, surrounded with people who depended on her, who loved her, was more than she could bear. Meanwhile, Althanea was whispering, "Remember what I told you, Tara? It is by loving Willow that you will save the world."

"How can I save the world if I'm here?"

Her own mother's hand on her back, her mother's eyes looking over Tara's head to meet Althanea's eyes. The British witch nodded, as her mother said, "Not even the poet knows the end from the beginning."

Tara had heard her mother's favourite expression a thousand times before, but never with such clarity. With perfect insight, Tara remembered the nights her mother was imprisoned in the attic for the false demon within her. She remembered the tortuous night sweats, the incestuous advances of her father. She remembered the fists of her brother, the sting of loneliness and rejection.

And Tara remembered sitting with Willow underneath their tree, Willow's hands blessing her with her devoted touch. She remembered the taste of Willow's lips, the velvety smoothness of her mouth. Tara remembered that she was in love with the woman who was supposed to kill her.

If only Tara could die again!

But now the world will fall. Tara's blood had been spilled in vain, and heaven would fall soon afterwards. It would be here that Tara would fight her final battles, always waiting for the day that her love would return to her through the veil of the grave.

They could have no peace here, even together. The great Seals between the worlds would fracture, and like the Titans of old, the worlds would be overrun with fell beasts and foul demons.

Nyx was not here. If she were, Tara would have begged for her life back, to be given one more chance to save the world she had only recently become a fan of. All those years of wanting to give up her life, and now she would do anything if she could only return to it!

There was an odd tug at her abdomen. Tara looked down, but could see nothing there but the smooth pearly whiteness of her gown, fading into the shadows of the heavenly ground.

The sky continued to darken, the crowd began to disperse. There was another tug, not painful, but it suddenly struck Tara as what it felt like. It felt like when she was kissing Willow, and felt such intense love and devotion pour through her soul that her midsection would ache with joy.

There was a wistful smile on the women's faces. From the distance Tara could hear a faint voice, a call, more in feeling than in words. A question was being asked, and Tara was delighted to give the answer.

Her mother and Althanea stood close by. Another tug, stronger this time, and this time the voice could be clearly heard.

"Tara, my love, come back to me. I beg you, come back to me."

"It's your choice," Anna said, a trifle wistfully. "It's always been your choice. You can go back, or you can stay."

Tara's choice. Anna, Althanea, and heaven. Or earth, Willow, and death by scythe.

Tara chose Willow.

Kissing her mother's cool cheek, squeezing her hand one last time, Tara looked lovingly at Althanea, and then closed her eyes. "Save me, Willow," she breathed.

As her consciousness faded back into her mortal body, she heard her mother say, "I'll see you soon enough. Remember, not even the poet knows the end from the beginning."

Not a tug. An irresistible pull, an elastic line, connecting her forever to the person who was waiting on the other side. To her body. To Willow.

Her first breath almost hurt, as if her lungs had forgotten exactly how to breathe. Her arm was crooked awkwardly under her leaden body, and her ears roared. But every moment after that was so exquisite that even heaven could not compare.

For how could heaven compare with Willow's body, with the touch of her skin? Feeling gangly and desperate, Tara wrapped her arms around Willow, clutching her with ardent intensity. For two seconds, that was enough.

More, Willow, more! One of Tara's hands held Willow's neck as their lips came together, not gentle, not at all! With bruising intensity, Tara crushed her lips to Willow's, as if by feeling of their warmth she could convince herself that she wasn't dead so how could this be heaven? Feeling Willow sob against her face nearly unravelled Tara completely; her lover held her with arms just as tight, with hands just as aching in longing. Tilting her lips, lifting Willow's neck, Tara continued to kiss her beloved on those blessed lips, the corner of her mouth, the rosebud center, ranging all over, learning again exactly what Willow tasted like. A hand gladly slipped inside Willow's sweater, and she ran her fingers along Willow's back, her other hand still holding Willow's neck, her lips still memorizing the landscape of her lover's soul.

She felt Willow's tears more profoundly as they continued to kiss, and Tara couldn't get enough of her. Moving her lips, dipping her tongue inside Willow's mouth, kissing and kissing and kissing again, Willow's hands holding her upright, Willow's breasts so soft against her own.

"Tara, my Tara," Willow was crying, and Tara felt Willow lift her even higher off the ground, Willow sucking her tongue into her own mouth. The sensations were so intense, Tara thought she would explode.

Yet no matter how often they had shared kisses, this felt different, and it took a moment for Tara to realize why. Willow's hand running up inside her shirt, encountering no demon grooves, no scabs, and no amulet. They had never kissed without the amulet on before, without Caleb as an unwelcome guest. Willow seemed to realize it the moment she did; they both nearly laughed aloud for the joy of it.

There was no summoning of magic at all. The gift, when it came, seemed directly from the gods.

White light began to spill from their joined bodies, seeping through their skin, shooting from their fingers. A great hand lifted them up, yet they seemed oblivious to it; all that mattered was that they were together, as they should always have been. Like a great tidal wave, the white magic gathered at their toes and rippled upwards, mending tears in clothing, erasing bloodstains.

Locked in their tight embrace a foot above the floor, Tara suddenly gasped, lifting her head away from Willow. The icy heat of the magic had reached her shoulders, was creeping inside her head, and the black knot that was her tumour, the inky purple stain that was her dread disease, they were being washed away in the tide of healing magic that poured through her.

Tara had not known how great a pain she always carried until every ounce of it was gone. For one final moment she seemed to blaze with magic; an unearthly breeze lifting her hair from her shoulders revealed hair turned white as snow.

Tara opened her mouth as if to scream, or to sing, or to articulate something, but nothing could escape her lips. As soon as the snowy tide began, it was over, and the same gentle giant hand seemed to stand them upon the floor. Tara swayed, and would have fallen over if not for Willow's steadying arms.

Filled with hope, daring to believe, Tara retreated into herself and swiftly built herself her tree. A slight push, and the tree materialized inside her.

Where once it was drooping with vileness, diseased, decayed, and broken, it now stood healed, proud, and whole. Her willow tree, the tree of her body, it was more pure and stronger than it had ever been. Looking at Willow, seeing the expression of wondering hope in her lover's expression, Tara whispered, "It's gone. The tumour is gone."

Wrapped in Willow's arms once more, Tara felt the beating of Willow's heart, felt the softness of her breasts, felt a tidal wave of love pour from her until her very soul seemed to ache with it. For the next few minutes, Tara fell away, knowing nothing except the joy of Willow's body, the taste of Willow's skin, the touch of Willow's hands. Willow's palm over her heart, her lips upon her throat, this verily was heaven as well.

But when the minutes passed, and the world intruded, as the world often does, Tara remembered that being resurrected once simply wasn't enough. Another violent death awaited her, and this time there was no surety of victory. The scythe peeked from the floor where Willow had dropped it. It would be the last thing on this world she would ever see.

And this time, the second time, that would be enough. She knew when she quit heaven that she would soon be back – Althanea and Anna would save a place for her there. Having died once by an enemy's hand Tara surmised that it was much better to die by a loved hand. Her blood would be spilled again. It would hurt, again. It would hurt so damn much.

But Willow would be there. Willow would be holding her. And when her last breath failed, it would be with Willow's lips on hers.

Wrapping her fingers about Willow's waist, Tara finally turned to Donny. He was sitting on the floor, his expression dumbstruck, not even turning away from their kisses, their expressions of love. His head had stopped bleeding from where he had been slumped against the wall

 _(what had really happened here while I was dead?)_

and blood was crusted on his forehead, bits of bone and gore still flecked his head and shoulders. With a final squeeze, Tara dropped Willow's hand and went to her brother. Touching him softly, aware of his piercing gaze on her, Tara reached inside herself for the magic that was her birthright.

Her gift stood small, alone, unsupported by the titans of magic that Caleb had stolen. Her fingers convulsed on his forehead as she considered this loss, the magical gifts that Willow had in abundance, that Tara had shared for such a brief time, gone so swiftly with the shedding of her blood. Even as she told herself that they could still win, that Willow was still the strong one, a small part of her wished that she could have had the gifts, too, that invisibility and teleportation would have been valuable allies for both of them in the fight that awaited them upon the Seal.

Tara also knew that Willow could have healed Donny in an instant, but her girlfriend hovered behind her, quiet and still, waiting for Tara to finish what she had started.

Sending out the little armies of cells to her brother's body, sucking his pain inside herself, Tara once again felt whole. This was always her task. The blood debt was always hers to pay.

The final debt would be collected upon the stone mountain, half a world away.


	51. Piatra Neamt

**Chapter 51**

 **Piatra Neamt**

It was vastly apparent that no one stayed dead in Sunnydale.

Whether as ghost, zombie or vampire, one way or another you were bound to come back.

John knew how lucky he was, to have this second chance.

The sun was setting, and he was hiking up the deeply rutted logging track that led through the pine forest. The smog eased as they gained the mountain, and the last futile rays of the sun filtered through the smog, painting the landscape a dismal red. It was an easy hike for him and his nearly perfected body, and he tried to hide his nimble step as the others complained, loudly, in Romanian. He let his mind wander, and thought about Willow and Tara.

Willow. The red-haired super nuke of the gods had been surprised to see him as part of Faith's army, as he knew she would. Even before his reanimation he had been adept at reading people; he saw in her the rainbow of coloured auras that meant she was blessed of many gods. He also saw bone deep weariness and pain, sorrow fathoms deep anchoring her sea green eyes. She wanted to stay, to demand answers; he wondered if she would resort to cajoling him or threatening him to get the information she sought. But she knew there was no time, even though he would have answered any question she would ask.

Why was he here? He had a debt to repay, and not only to Willow.

It was getting darker, but the sun was still above the horizon. They were drawing closer. He could feel the earth, restless beneath his feet. The gura cerului

 _(heavenmouth)_

hummed, just up there, by the monastery. The First was foolish to try its shenanigans here.

The departed merely waited for their own opportunity. But it might still come down to Willow, the scythe, and Tara.

Tara. John had returned, reanimated in body but broken in spirit. Listless, grieving, he made his way to the one beacon of light he could sense in a world mired in ugliness. How astonished he was to find her, a descendant of Aranaea, and the healer of the world.

Tara was so hurt, by life. John wondered how she could ever do what she'd been prophesied to do. Until it was Willow Rosenberg who was wheeled through the hospice doors. All became clear. Willow saved his life, without even knowing it. Tara restored his faith in humanity. And now he would have the chance to repay them both.

The others had been remarkably clear. Do not interfere with Willow and Tara in any way. Aranaea in particular had been fierce about his interaction with the two women, or lack thereof. She seemed to think that a single mistake from John, the wrong word at the wrong time, could throw the whole "Willow has to fall in love with Tara so Tara can save the world" thing.

She was young, for a goddess. John could take her shriekings in stride.

After leaving the hospice, early in the morning in California time, John had appeared in Bacau, speaking to Irina and meeting firebrand Faith. Some time later Willow had arrived in person, puzzled by his appearance but without the time to ask questions. It was just as well. John's story was a little complicated. After updating Faith and installing Oz as another fighter Willow left, returning to the farmhouse to hold the Priest of Danzalthar hostage. After she was gone, that young, fiery Slayer didn't know what to do with him. He had no magic they could see, no fighting skills. Under her breath, Faith said he was just like Xander.

John could handle that. Xander played a far bigger role than even the Scoobies themselves realized.

For his part, John was intent on getting to the monastery before the armies of The First. With a nudge here and a suggestion there, Faith's motley little vamp-trashing crew got organized and began their trek up the mountain.

He was always a shepherd. These younglings were pretty annoying sheep. It was almost difficult to imagine them saving the world. But really, could he have done as much, young and immature and mortal?

There was a cemetery off the side of the monastery. With his heightened senses, even in the dim light he could read the ancient, moss-filled carvings. Generations of the Order of the Crescent lay here, protecting the Seal even within their tombs. When the time was right they would draw on their holy armour as well, John would see to that.

...

Thin mist crept among the pine trees, and the smell of resin was strong in the air. Faith surreptitiously breathed deeply, vastly aware that California smelled nothing like this. Well, neither did the cities of Romania, for that matter. Bacau may have been civilised to some degree, with internet cafes, bank machines and a Starbucks, but to step two miles from the city was to lose two hundred years. Small houses. Little electricity, little plumbing.

The march up to the monastery went by in a flash. For the first time the Slayer was in charge of her own army; there was no Giles, no Buffy to give orders. The thought simultaneously thrilled and scared her. The secret Order of the Crescent had operated in silence for hundreds of years, their young members highly skilled in fighting vampires and demons. There were still so few of them, not even fifty. Six new Slayers followed behind her, greener than the Potentials back in Sunnydale. Faith wondered how many of them would survive the night.

She had strange allies. The Order of the Crescent, their general Jude walking just behind her. Occasionally her warm hand would touch Faith's back. The Slayerettes, all six barely capable of holding a stake, let alone killing a vamp with it. Oz, a familiar face in an unfamiliar place, walking in an easy, wolfish lope. His face was grim. Faith wondered what inner demons he was facing this night, and whether he would be able to contain the beast as he promised.

And John.

Faith turned her head to look at the nurse. He had sauntered amiably into Irina's house, began a rapid-fire conversation with her in Romanian, then introduced himself to Faith as a friend of Tara's. Faith, barely knowing who Tara was, was disinclined to let him join them. His hands were soft. What value could he possibly bring? More likely he would be another dead body to bury at the dawn.

"You need me," he finally said. "And if I don't come with you, I'll just follow you."

Fine. Let him die. Faith washed her hands of him.

At least, that's what she told herself.

The path they trod suddenly opened up into the clearing. The monastery was ruined; great armies of moss had overcome its toppled walls, and only two archways remained to testify of its former glory. The grass in the clearing was long and whispered against her leather pants, leaving streaks of moisture. Faith had a belt on, festooned with stakes and daggers, a crossbow hanging over her shoulder. Her army was similarly armed, and the youngest members of the Order were marching near the back with their reserves of weapons.

Faith fingered the dagger at her belt and dreamed of holding the scythe again. It had taken all her self-control not to beg Willow to let her have it back – it had always felt right in her hands. With the scythe, she was invincible. After Willow left, Oz had filled in the rest of the details. Faith really had only one purpose here tonight. To keep Caleb off the Seal, and to kill him. Until she had the scythe again, her broadsword, crossbow, and wicked set of daggers would have to do.

Too bad Buffy killed him first. If there was one thing Faith hated, it was following in The Chosen One's footsteps.

No matter how hard Faith tried to convince herself that she didn't care, there was a pang in her heart when she thought of Buffy and the others. There would be no more battles for them. No more heated blood-lust, no more adrenaline coursing through veins, no more midnight lovemaking.

As ordered, her army began to stream into position as they entered the clearing. The monastery itself was deserted, so Faith's army took possession, Willow's warning resounding in her mind.

 _(Whatever you do, don't let Caleb on the Seal.)_

The Seal was covered with a great stone slab. Even with her Slayer powers, Faith knew she would not be able to lift it.

The sun set himself among the folds of the mountains, and a curtain of night was veiled over the sky. It was almost time.

At the edge of the monastery, looking out across the clearing, her army arrayed themselves behind fallen blocks, her crossbowmen in a line hidden among the ruins. Two brave young men rolled out the fire line across the far edge of the clearing before spooling the ends back to their general. Jude stood just behind Faith, her dark brown hair caught up in a ponytail, a stake in her hand. Unlike the others, she stood poised and ready, a small smile upon her lips. In the last few days Faith had discovered in Jude a lust for battle the equal of her own. And an equal lust for pleasure as well.

Untouched by no hand more threatening than a shepherd for hundreds of years, the Stone Mountain and everyone upon it waited for nightfall.

They did not have long to wait. Already the moon was rising, full and massive, a bright orb to better light their way. Oz had a charm in his hand, was fingering the beads and whispering. Behind her, Jude's breath quickened.

And from the dark trees ahead crept the hordes of the underworld.

It was a mixed army that faced them; demons and vampires that would never consider themselves allies were it not for the pale faced man walking in front of them, the white spot at his throat gleaming with eldritch light. The Priest of Danzalthar, Tara's dad, the one the bad guys were going to sacrifice, was nowhere to be seen.

And neither were Willow or Tara.

Faith took a deep breath as Caleb slowly advanced, his army upon his heels. In the moonlit clearing, it seemed as if his eyes were black. For a long moment they stared at each other, their armies restless at their heels.

"Playtime," Faith whispered.

The undead let out a roar as they surged past Caleb – Faith could see he was willing to let them die first. Jude needed no order from Faith; as the line of vampires and demons drew near the fire cable, Jude lit her ends with a lighter. Immediately sparks surged through the cable and as they hit the pockets of gunpowder secreted along the fire line, they exploded.

A curtain of fire erupted near the first rank of vampires and demons; they shrieked in agony as they dropped to their knees. Clothing alight, some tried to run away or roll in the dewed grass. Any who ran were spitted by the demons behind them.

The fire, though intense, didn't last long. Cremated, charred hunks of undead flesh littered the ground and the charnel-house smell drifted to Faith and her army in the slight breeze. In the moment of confusion that reigned, Faith yelled, "First rank, fire!"

An almost musical twang as wooden crossbow bolts were launched through the air, thudding with deadly accuracy in the milling ranks of the enemy. "Second rank!" Faith called. Through the dust cloud of their departed flesh, Faith's second rank of crossbowmen fired, penetrating even deeper into the army.

This was the easy part. From now on, things could get tricky.

Her army reloaded their weapons and Faith could hear Caleb shouting commands. The preacher didn't seem concerned, which bothered Faith a hell of a lot more than she let on. They had just obliterated nearly a hundred of his men. How many more were hidden among the trees?

Faith had no more time to wonder.

Regrouped, the enemy once again advanced, wary of more traps. "Fire at will!" Faith cried out, and again crossbows hummed. As the bolts fell among them, the undead began to run.

And in moments were at the edge of the monastery, grappling hand to hand with Faith's army. As Faith parried strokes and sunk her stake again and again into vampire flesh, she looked around. Some of her own were falling, their throats ripped open by vampires or their bodies crushed by demons.

Parting the crowds like Moses did the Red Sea, Caleb advanced towards her. Faith still didn't have the scythe.

His eyes were black, and lightning crackled around his fists.

Where are you, Red?

She was fighting back to back with Jude, and suddenly felt as much as heard her lover's exclamation of air. Turning to defend, not knowing what to expect, Faith followed Jude's pointing finger.

Among the tombs of the cemetery John stood, his hands held wide over his head, calling in a language Faith could not recognize.

A rumbling, whether from earth or sky Faith could not tell.

Both armies seemed to pause as the first misty shapes arose from the ground. They were not the skeletal, earth eaten shapes Faith would have expected from ghosts. Rather they looked as they did in life, hale in heart and body, composed of energy, not flesh. An unearthly light seemed to be cast upon them, or radiating from within them. They stood, clothed and ready for battle.

So that's why we need John.

They made little sound, her new allies, but the undead army they faced was roaring in ferocity. The din was incredible – with the screams of her fallen soldiers, the death chants of the demons, and the whistling of energy weapons through the air, Faith was distracted.

And a demon hulked through the fallen stones and fell upon Jude. Faith turned to engage, even as her lover cried out in pain. Stumbling backwards over a low stone, Jude fell, her hand to her side, the demon on top of her. Inarticulate with rage, Faith screamed something incoherent and heart wrenching as she attacked the demon. Knife strokes seemed to glance away from the hardened shell of his body as he continued to crush Jude beneath him.

Somewhere behind her there was an explosion. Chunks of flying stone gouged the backs of her legs, scored lines of green ichor from the body of the demon that was still crushing her girlfriend. Screams filled the empty spaces of the night. Ghosts fought among them, but there was no one to save Jude.

"Faith, move!" yelled a familiar voice.

Faith jumped away from the demon just as a lightning bolt crashed into it, followed immediately by a force globe of air. The demon's body went flying off somewhere, Faith didn't care where, all she cared about was that there was a broken body lying among the rocks, blood dribbling from her beloved mouth.

"Faith?" Jude whispered, a thicker stream of blood making its way down her cheek and neck. There were huge gashes on her chest and arms. Her legs were twisted, and from her shin Faith could see broken bone erupting.

Faith and Willow knelt by the body simultaneously. Willow took one of Jude's hands even as she passed the scythe to Faith. "I'll help her. You kill Caleb."

Already Faith could see Jude's skin mending, her broken bones aligning once more. Faith stood and saw a girl standing behind Willow, a girl with clear blue eyes, thin scars down her cheeks, who seemed to almost radiate with light. Faith had never been a religious person, so she couldn't quite name the sensation of near-awe that passed through her as she saw Tara for the first time.

It was as if she was face to face with a goddess.

Tara's face turned from kindly to stricken. "Behind you!" she shouted.

Faith whirled, expecting to see an enemy, taking advantage of her distraction. What she saw was worse.

With his bare two hands crackling with energy, surrounded by groaning bodies of the Order, Caleb stood astride the stone slab of the Seal.

Faith began to run, even as demons surrounded Willow, Tara, and Jude. She leaped over them, hating that she needed faith, of all things, faith in Willow and the others, to protect what she could not protect. The scythe was warm in her hands, tingling with energy and vitality.

She could hear the fight renewed behind her; as she navigated through the concourse of fallen stone and fallen body, she could see Tara grappling with an enemy. It seemed as if Willow and Tara worked in a perfect team; Tara ducked just as Willow lifted her bloodied hand to cast lightning upon the hapless demon – he fell in a blaze of crackling light.

Caleb loomed before her, his hands lifted to the heavens. She could almost see the massive, maniacal shape of the First behind his eyes.

Faith could have kicked her own ass. This was her one task. Keep Caleb off the Seal. She almost had to respect Caleb's thinking – with Jude injured, Faith was busy, and he was free to do as he wished.

Caleb leaped into the air, and landed on the stone slab with the force of a bomb. The slab exploded, flying chunks of stone striking human and undead flesh alike. Faith's cheeks were gouged, as were her arms and legs. Grappling with a demon that suddenly leered in front of her, Faith saw Caleb stand upon the Seal, then he slashed his wrists with the knife.

Decapitating the demon with one mighty swoop, Faith leaped on the Seal and tackled Caleb to the ground, not before noticing that the Seal had begun to glow and pulse with energy.

Blood was leaking from the preacher's wrists, thin foam around his mouth. He barely moved as Faith got to her feet. "Even the powerful die," he began to say.

"Whatever," Faith interrupted, and lopped off his head.

With Caleb's death, the enemy seemed to lose part of its heart. Distracted vampires were staked by Slayerettes and the few remaining members of the Order. Ghosts swarmed over demons, using weapons of pure energy to slice and dice. The werewolf lifted his head to the sky and howled; Faith could see his charms still in his hand. He melted back into Oz, his face triumphant over his control of the beast. Faith didn't really care. With a deliberation that nearly made her squeamish, Faith systematically chopped Caleb up – there would be no more sewing and reanimation for the dark preacher. If only Buffy had done the same.

Faith looked back towards Jude and Willow. Jude was on her feet, though still a bit shaky. Tara held her arm. Willow whispered something to Tara; the girl nodded and Willow hurried away, kneeling among the fallen bodies.

Walking to her lover, Faith drew Jude into a tight embrace and whispered, "Don't scare me like that again, okay?"

"I thought you didn't get scared," Jude whispered back, pulling Faith's lips toward hers. A hard, bruising kiss that stole Faith's breath away, and then they pulled away. "More later," Jude promised.

Faith nodded, looking at Tara. The girl had a sad expression on her face, and was watching Willow move among the fallen. Near them the Seal continued to pulse with energy; to Faith's surprise, it slowly grew stronger. Tara was watching its progression, and soon she called out to Willow.

Willow immediately left the body she was tending and walked back to them, taking Tara's hand. "I've saved who needed it most. The rest will have to wait."

Willow held out her hand. Faith understood. She passed back the scythe. "Thanks, Red. You came just in time."

"I'm sorry we couldn't get here any sooner. We had… problems."

Tara looked wistful. Those who could walk were beginning to congregate around them, including Oz and John. They looked at Willow and Tara as if only faintly beginning to understand what was happening, and Faith felt another wrench in her heart. She had failed in her only task, and the pale-faced woman in front of her was going to die as a result. She wanted to open her mouth and apologize to Willow and Tara both, to explain what had happened, but the words froze in her throat. It was because of Willow's eyes.

The red-haired witch stood there, holding Tara close with one hand, the scythe in the other. Tara's head was tucked near Willow's neck. As Faith watch, Willow softly kissed the top of Tara's head. Faith couldn't quite understand how Willow was taking it so calmly, until she noticed the tremor in Willow's hand, the tightness of Willow's jaw, the despair writ clearly on her face.

Jude had her life back, thanks to Willow. Tara would lose hers, thanks to Faith. If she allowed it, the injustice of it all would shred apart her heart. Couldn't have that happen. So Faith boxed the feelings up, to handle another day. In time, Willow might forgive her. Faith wasn't sure she could forgive herself.

So Tara went in the same little box as the mayor's man she slew in the alley, the same box she hid away all her mistakes.

"Give them some space, wouldja?" Faith called out, walking among them and shooing them away. If Willow had to kill her girlfriend, she could at least do it in some semblance of privacy. At Willow's expression, Faith allowed Oz and John to stay.

Arms about each other's waists, Willow and Tara were climbing upon the Seal. Then they stood there, and the glowing energy from the activated Seal bathed them in soft light. As they shared a lingering kiss, Faith discovered that her eyes were full of tears, and she could look no more.


	52. The Lamb

**Chapter 52**

 **The Lamb**

Tara Maclay, RN, prophet-dreamer, truth-seeker, demon-slayer, and Willow-lover, stood upon the Seal, the evanescent glow alighting upon her face with all the soft focus she could have dreamed of her final hours. In front of her stood her saviour. Wisps of cloud had been vanquished and moonlight streamed fiercely down, inscribing her lovers features forever in her soul.

Not even the poet knows the end from the beginning.

Fourteen days ago, Peter Whitney lay dying in his hospital bed. On that day, Tara had stood near him, holding his cancer-ravaged hand, watching soulfire dance behind his closed eyes, watched as the veil drew thin. On that day, Tara had prayed for such an end to come to her, that her darkness, her need of martyrdom and pain would finally cease, and she could be the one passing through the purple curtain even with the taste of defeat on her tongue. For she lived in an abyss of love, mired within the

 _(deathspace)_

emptiness of her agonising life, wounded by the light of her patients, for she carried her own darkness within. Tara used to envy them their deaths, ached for the curtain to fall over her.

And this time the tunnel, the purple, was for her.

She had never wanted so badly to stay.

Tara had dreamed of this ending, that fateful day she first heard of Willow Rosenberg. It was the afternoon that Peter died, and Tara had slept and beheld the face of the goddess for the first time. The hair was white, then, and she was clad in a gown of starlight and fairytale wishes. Beholding her face, Tara wondered if her future could possibly bloom like the lilies in Peter Whitney's garden.

No. For she had a part to play, even though she'd never seen the script or read the ending. She would be the tool, the bridge

 _(the lamb)_

the ultimate sacrifice to save the world. She took Willow's stain that day, took it until she was satiated to the point of death with it

 _(you took it Tara, you took it and you can't give it away)_

never knowing that this one dream prophesied her entire fate. Angel had warned her, back when Tara was demon-fodder and naive, that staying in this world too long would kill her. None of them could have known that Tara would have to die twice.

Her role had always been the same, even as Tara progressed from being a nurse to being a Kraken. Fighting the demon, healing Willow, taking on Tawarick, finally standing up to her father, even dying; the end was always going to be the same. Healing by sacrifice. How small and insignificant Willow's healing seemed now that Tara was about to heal the entire world.

And how remarkable that the only reason she could do it at all was standing right in front of her, the pearly glow of moonfire and magic illuminating Willow's devastated face.

Save Willow, so Willow can save the world. Not by healing, but by loving her. Althanea's words, so close to the vital truth.

 _(Save Tara, so Tara can save the world.)_

Now, with Willow tucked in her body, Willow's hands about her waist, Willow's head upon Tara's heart, Tara remembered the first time she had enfolded Willow thus, in the protection of Willow's mind, in the aspect of an angel. They shared their first kiss that day. Willow proferred her lips now, lifting her sorrowing face to the heavens, and Tara softly kissed them, remembering that first time. Her girl had been so desperate, so shy. It seemed that Willow wanted to memorize her again, impress Tara's lips, mouth, and soul on her in the last moments they would share among the living.

So they kissed, there in the moonlit drenched meadow of the Stone Mountain, and Tara could sense the heaven-threads, for she stood upon the heaven-mouth. It was here that the Guardians had fashioned the scythe of the power of the gods, and as Tara had learned in the hospice, the passage of the gods through the filters of the worlds left a distinctive mark. As Willow opened her mouth, tilting her head, drawing Tara exquisitely in, Tara could feel a power growing within her, welling up inside her with exquisite painful joy.

For Willow was more than her girl, her lover, her saviour. Willow was her light, a light more glorious than sunlight, moonlight, and starlight combined. She was the Willow-light, the love-light, Tara's new north star.

Willow's warm fingers moving higher now, leaving the comfort of Tara's waist to journey up her back, caressing her shoulder blades, perhaps remembering the gold-dipped wings that had sprouted there. Fingers that finally grapsed Tara's neck, buried themselves in her hair, tilted her face so she could continue kissing the corner of Tara's mouth, her jawline, her earlobe, her neck.

And Tara began to weep.

After all they had been through, the tortuous healing, their flight into the ether as Willow was gifted, their triumphant return to Tara's house, their first night of love-making, the disastrous appearance of Tawarick, and then Caleb, and then p'achi, and then murder, and then her own death, Tara could scarcely believe that this time it would be over. It was as her mother predicted.

 _(For the love of this woman, you will surely die.)_

In all her running around to save Willow, to save the world, she had not discovered how to save herself.

And now it was too late.

Here, upon this sacred ground, this ground hallowed by the gods, protected by the Order of the Crescent, fought for bled for died for, Tara would become the ultimate sacrifice. The rabbit. The lamb. The Kraken arose from the depths just in time to die, but Tara would have it no other way.

Willow did what she promised. Tara was saved. Tara knew that the past two weeks more than made up for her lifetime of abuse and pain. Willow's love balanced, and then tipped the scale. From sad Sue Tara had learned to hide, to protect, to burrow. From Willow Tara learned to open, to live, to soar. With Willow she felt true love, not just brotherly love, but all-consuming, soul-losing, faith-shattering, eternity-seeking love that she spent her lifetime looking for, and verily rejoiced in when she found it.

Willow was looking up at her again, with eyes softened by much pain and heartache, tears creasing lines of cleanliness down her smudged cheeks. Tara lifted a thumb to wipe those tears away, then paused, then kissed them instead, tasting the salty sweetness of them, feeling Willow's hands clutch at her again, feeling her whole soul quaking with this love for her girl. She would have died a thousand deaths to keep Willow from harm.

 _(I will die again.)_

Tara lifted her face; Willow opened her eyes again. Tara softly smiled and touched Willow's hair – it was just underneath there that Willow had suffered a broken skull. Lips followed the fingers, and she softly kissed Willow's hair.

 _(Will the heaven-threads sustain me?)_

There had been a gash on Willow's forehead. Tara kissed that as well. Willow, seeming to understand what Tara was doing, tilted her head. Tara gently tugged on Willow's sweater, exposing the thin scar where the uber-vamp had dined on her. With achingly soft lips, she kissed that as well, knowing that Willow's scars testified of Tara's sacrifice, and every one represented a lost and buried hope.

Willow's hands were on her waist, relentless pressure pulling her forward. Kissing Willow's neck, licking her throat, Tara passed one hand inside Willow's sweater and over her belly, tracing that other long thin scar, before touching the spot on Willow's back where the sword had left its exit wound.

 _(I did that, for I am the Kraken.)_

The blood debt was so deep, the price so very much to pay.

No time for life, for death cannot wait.

Why could she not have learned these vital lessons sooner? Fourteen days, that was nothing. It was a morsel, when life with Willow should have been a feast. Why couldn't she just have stayed?

It wasn't fair. Didn't she promise Willow?

 _(If you wish it, I'll never leave you again.)_

Oh yes, how naive. Tara would leave her, through the purple curtain Tara would leave her, and what would Willow do once Tara was gone? Nearly everyone who ever loved the slim red-haired witch was dead. Only Faith, a somewhat dubious ally, and Oz remained. Would she eventually find happiness in his arms once more? Would she forget that she was branded with Tara's touch?

Willow was weeping, "Never, Tara, never." Willow pulled at her relentlessly, her mouth a firebrand. Their conjoined lips moved with haste, a frenzy precipitated by their imminent departure. Tara used her tongue to open Willow's mouth; she cried as she tasted Willow for the last time. The glow from beneath them was brightening – they had no more time.

 _(The hollowing is almost complete. Once you are empty, be careful of what you put back in.)_

A final kiss, a last caress.

Just as Tara was about to pull away, Willow frantically pulled her back to her arms. All Willow's limbs were trembling, and Tara's heart melted even more. For one last time, Tara held Willow, so tight they should have become one, Willow's broken voice in her ear, "I can't lose you again. I just can't!"

 _(If I lose you, my heart will be broken.)_

Grief mixed with molten desire crashed through her, and Tara wished she had the ability to stop time. She would have taken Willow once more, slid inside her so deliciously, convinced her that, for Tara, there was no one else, nor had there ever been. With suckling lips upon aroused nipples she would have proven her love once more, and experienced beauty she never thought this world could provide her.

But all they had was this one moment, which was fading fast.

"The choice was mine, and mine completely," Tara whispered, her breath on Willow's earlobe, her hands tangled in Willow's hair. "I knew all along that this was my task." Weeping with sorrow, Tara kissed Willow on the forehead. "You have to be strong." Another kiss on Willow's lips, aware of Willow's hands roaming under her shirt, along her backside. When their mouths tilted, when Willow's soft lips moved under hers, Tara tasted the heaven-threads, and knew the time was approaching fast.

 _(On some level, you didn't want me to get it.)_

And Tara thought of her mother, who had sacrificed so much. She thought of Buffy, Xander, Giles, Althanea, and so many others who also gave their lives to save the world. Their sacrifices were unknown, as hers would be.

 _(You didn't want me to fully understand your sacrifice.)_

When came the dawn, the birds would sing, men and women would go to work, and the world would be the same. They would never know that with her blood, she had just saved them all. Her sacrifice would be as unknown as the sacrifice of those poor Potentials in Sunnydale, all the Slayers, and even the corpses of the Order of the Crescent that littered this hallowed ground. Their blood was also consecrated, and she could feel the brightening of the highway to heaven, lit by those who had walked before her.

 _(If I understood too much, I might have fallen in love with you.)_

And Willow would become a wreck of her former self, revisiting past moments of bliss until they drove her mad. She would live in Tara's house, and always walk around the puddle where Althanea had died, and would cry in the bathtub, her tears making solemn plinking noises against the water.

 _(There would be no joy without Tara.)_

Tara continued to kiss Willow and knew that her lover spoke the truth. Willow couldn't lose her again. On a deeper level, they knew that they were both sacrificing their lives. Willow knew her duty. She would kill Tara with her own hands. This most important murder would weigh her conscience like a millstone, and it wouldn't take long for her to join Tara in the land of the dead.

 _(If you wish it, I'll never leave you again.)_

The world wouldn't mourn them. They would not have pages in the annals of history. No, they darted into the world as bright and quick as butterflies, and dead just as fast.

In heaven they would have the time they deserved.

Tara finally drew away, squeezing Willow's hand. They gazed at each other over the smouldering of the Seal, and said the only words that mattered.

"I love you, Willow," Tara whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

 _(Why, Tara? Why do you love me?_

 _It's what I was born to do._

 _It's what I'll die doing.)_

"Tara, I love you," Willow gulped. Their hands ever clasped together, Willow helped Tara lay down upon the Seal, and Tara felt the grit of the shattered stone slab under her, saw the stars of Orion twinkling above. The sighing of the wind was tempered by the soft groanings of the injured, and ever she smelt the pine resin and creeping mould of the long forgotten monastery. She impressed it all upon her mind, knowing that she would never see the earth again. And as she had already discovered, even heaven had no beauty to match it.

Willow finally let go of Tara's fingers; she laid her arms by her sides. Kneeling and straddling Tara's hips, Tara kept her eyes on Willow's eyes, even though tears were streaming down her cheeks. She would not brush them away, for only more would come, and she wished she could face this without crying, give Willow the strength she needed for this most awful task. This apocalypse that Willow could not avert.

Willow wept continuously as well, holding out her hand to Faith, keeping her gaze locked on Tara's. As the dark Slayer handed Willow the scythe, Tara gulped. How much would it hurt? The wooden end of the scythe was thick and impossibly sharp. It would do the trick.

Even then, Willow hesitated. "Do it," Tara prompted, gritting her jaw.

"The blood which I spill, I consecrate to the gods," Willow whispered. "Do what you must to save the world."

Her fingers flexed on the handle, and Tara watched. Willow lifted the scythe in the air, and Tara watched. Willow screamed, and the end of the scythe hurtled through time and space, and crunched into her rib cage, carving muscle and bone, and the tip of it breached her faithful heart.

There was no time to notice the taste of honey in her mouth, the pain that was wildfire in her veins. The heaven-threads tempered all things, and as Tara's blood flowed from her body, conquering the pentagram, the goat's skull, Tara's soul separated from her body, drawn from mortality by Willow's dreadful choice.

Tara stood upon the highway to the sun for the second time in mere hours, the veil passing over her, the light beckoning. Willow had flung the scythe aside and collapsed on Tara's body, screaming and weeping in paroxysms of grief.

And suddenly Tara was not alone, there within the ether, removed from earth's dimension, so near to heaven.

"It's such a hard choice, isn't it?" Buffy said, standing near Tara, looking down on Willow with endless pity in her eyes.

Tara looked at the girl who meant so much to Willow, who had changed Willow in so many ways. Buffy was exactly as Tara knew she would be – young, strong, and beautiful. Tara looked back down on Willow, her throat constricting with pain.

"Even when I stood on the tower with Dawn, and watched the rift open, and demons come flowing through, it was a hard choice. How do you decide to die, when everyone else gets to live?"

"You knew your d-duty," Tara stammered, feeling gauche and awkward next to this legendary Slayer.

"It's never been about duty," Buffy disagreed, looking at Willow herself. Earth's reality flowed thickly, and in slow motion they both watched Willow tug Tara's body in her lap, rocking her body and screaming. Tara followed her gaze, and wept herself for Willow's agonies, so fresh, so repetitive.

"It's always been about love," finished another voice. Tara turned and beheld a young man with an earnest face and tousled hair. Even though his eye was whole, Tara recognized him immediately. Xander.

And suddenly Giles was there as well, and with heartsick appreciation, Tara realized she was surrounded by Willow's family. "You did what you were supposed to do, Tara," the older gentleman said, rolling the sound of her name. "With your sacrifice, the last Seal was destroyed. But not only did you save Earth, you saved every other world and dimension in existence, heaven included."

With a sweep of his hand she could see heaven, and verily it was bright, and bold, and beautiful. And angels walked the gold crusted streets, and bees flirted with roses, and the lamb and the lion lay down together, and neither of them afraid.

"You are one of us, Tara," Buffy said, taking Tara's hand, turning her gently away from the vision of Willow, and heartache, and Earth. "Here you will be cared for. Here you will be loved."

And Tara went with them, even though her heart knew, oh how it knew, that there could be no love here.

Not without Willow.

Her mother was wrong. Tara did know the end, right from the beginning. Death at Willow's hand, and an eternity waiting to be reunited.

...

 _(When the time comes, will you let her choose?)_

Willow had never felt pain like this. The scythe clattered to the ground, dripping in blood. It took every ounce of willpower in her body not to press her hands against that dreadful wound, to heal it and pull Tara back to her. Willow fell to her knees and gathered Tara's body in her lap. For a few moments she managed to hold in her grief, rocking Tara's body back and forth, but it grew to an unimaginable size and she just had to scream.

So she screamed even as she wept, clutching Tara's body, only peripherally aware that the Seal had stopped glowing, had even been erased of its pentagram and goat's head. In moments it took on the dullness of ordinary granite – it could never be used as a portal again.

From around her she could hear the sounds of others weeping, as well as the groans of the dead and dying. The practical side of her said she should assist the others she could, she had been gifted, now go use it! But nothing could tear her away from the body of the girl she loved, the girl she had killed. Kissing Tara's lips, remembering her anguish of only an hour before, Willow thought her heart had been extinguished forever. As she kissed Tara she pled to the gods for help, knowing that there were no more gifts.

There was no hope.

There was only the fracturing of her soul, the unbearable pain of her loss. All her friends had traveled this singular road that led to heaven, leaving Willow behind. Willow, destined to live. Pinned to the freaking wheel of Fate for all eternity, living when she had no right to, living in perpetual agony and self-recrimination, living without hope of redemption.

Tara's blood would stain her hands forever. There could be no moment when she could look at her hands and not remember how they trembled around the handle of the scythe, how hard it was to push through rib bones and into a beating heart.

 _(Just what does Tara mean to you, Willow?)_

She was her everything. And as the disease hollowed her, as the light of heaven began to shine through her eyes, as she latched onto her godly heritage and displayed gifts of power far beyond Willow's ken, Willow knew the truth. She was in love with the greatest soul that had ever lived.

When Tara saved Willow that day, by pulling Caleb out of her mind, did she know that she was condemning herself to death? Just like Buffy, Xander, and Giles, everyone who ever really loved Willow was doomed to die. Just as Willow was doomed to live.

Still rocking Tara's body, weeping with grief, Willow remembered the moment under the willow tree after they discovered the nature of Caleb's gift. That other Willow, that young, naive Willow, she didn't know that her hands would be stained with Tara's blood.

They had won. The Seal was vanquished.

Yet Willow had failed. To everyone who ever loved Tara, Willow promised to save her. The Council knew she would pull off the impossible, and solve the riddle, and do it just in the nick of time, just as she'd always done before.

The First would not be reborn. The skies would not flower with demons, and the earth would not vomit up the bones of the Old Ones. Beljoxa's Eye would remain his cantankerous self, and heaven would be safe.

But even while living, Willow's soul would still be reaved from her body, and she would be sentenced to a lifetime writhing in the regrets and the remorse of the damned.

Because Willow could not figure out the last puzzle, solve the last riddle, Tara would stay dead. They simply ran out of time. Jude was alive, as was Faith. But Tara was dead.

Tara was dead.

The moonlight was strong upon her body. She looked peaceful.

God was a farce.

There was a light touch upon her shoulder, and Willow lifted her bloodshot eyes to behold John kneeling next to her. In the moonlight his face looked ancient; an old soul in a relatively young body, his face also twisted with grief.

"She saved me, too," John said, his voice faltering. Willow watched him touch Tara's hand. "After…when I came to the hospice, I was pretty mixed up. Thought pretty little about the whole human race. Tara helped me see otherwise."

If he thought he was helping, Willow could set him straight in a hurry.

John looked at Willow and said, "We are all more than we seem. I would have lain down my life for hers as well. But my blood doesn't sing, not like Tara's."

"Who are you, John?" Willow wept. (And why are you doing this to me?)

"If I shed this mortal coil, you would recognize me," John said. Bemused, Willow could only stare as John's features shifted, his face melting and coalescing once more into that of a being that Willow did indeed recognize.

"Osiris," Willow breathed.

"I am," said John, his voice soft, "but I am also John. I died in Sunnydale two years ago and was buried next to a girl named Buffy Summers."

Truth and hope began to grow in Willow's chest. She held her breath as he continued to speak, feeling the hope balloon in her chest and knowing she would skewer the man alive if he was toying with her.

"There I remained, until Osiris was beguiled by a witch of considerable power. You, Willow."

 _(my skin ripped and a snake erupted from my mouth)_

"Buffy's spirit ripped a hole in the ether, from which later came the First. Before Osiris could retreat, the urn was broken, right over my grave."

 _(the demons in their motorbikes, and the Buffy-bot; we scattered like flies)_

"I became the God in flesh."

Beljoxa's Eye. _(You must also put your trust in those you've unknowingly helped in the past.)_

Willow remembered her beguilement. She had killed a deer for its blood, had allowed a spell to rip her apart. To save Buffy she had overcome every obstacle, knowing that Giles would not approve. For Tara she would do anything, cast any spell, endure any torment. Whatever this John/Osisris wanted, she would give. "Won't you bring her back to me?" Willow asked, her heart in her throat.

"To what end? She has fulfilled the measure of her creation. For this task alone was she born," John said, not unkindly.

"I would have her be with me. I would have her be my wife."

Willow didn't know she was going to say those words until they were out of her mouth. Once they were loose, they settled around her and inside her, until it became the only desire she had ever known. Tara as her wife. Tara alive. Tara and Willow, near the sharp-smelling tomato plants, kissing and telling while children laughed.

"There can be no inequalities in marriage. You have so much gifted power. She has so little. Would you lessen yourself? She has sacrificed everything. What will you sacrifice?"

That John even had to ask the question was ludicrous. Quietly, "I would. I would lessen myself. I would do anything to have her live once more."

"Three times in your life you tore a soul from heaven. Will you do so again? Can you offer more than that place of beauty, where she is with her mother once more?"

Willow chose her words carefully, holding down the joy that was erupting near her heart. If John was messing with her, he would pay, God or no God. "If no other challenge for me ever arose, I would spend all my days making beauty for Tara. This world has shown her only pain and misery. I could redeem it for her. I could spend a lifetime creating beauty and love and fulfilling all of her wishes."

John smiled. "Your sacrifice is accepted. Kiss her again and awaken her to a better world."

He placed his palm over Tara's shredded heart. Willow barely heard the gasp of delight from the onlooking crowd; all she knew was that she was reborn. Lifting Tara higher, Willow placed her soft lips on Tara's own.

"Accept my gift," John whispered.

Willow was puzzled only for a moment, but then there was a whoosh of strong air. A moment passed, and then two. Then a flush of heat on Tara's cool lips, a hand about Willow's waist. Long, lovely fingers touching Willow's cheek, then wrapping around her ear, holding the lobes softly between thumb and finger.

And Tara's lips, simply pressing, in a moment that did not need to be frozen in time, a moment that could last as long as any mortal moments could.

Willow's soul overflowed with joy as Tara pulled herself closer to Willow, her lips now harder, moving faster, passionate, intense. The first kiss of the rest of their lives, and Willow felt Tara engulf her, ravage her, her lips covering Willow's open mouth. Willow shivered as Tara's tongue ran across the front of Willow's teeth, dipping inside Willow's mouth, her fingers pulling at Willow's neck. Lips tilting now, and Willow, not quite over the shock of tasting Tara's lips again, could merely allow herself to be kissed more thoroughly than she ever had in her life.

For Tara focused on Willow's mouth, then on the corner of Willow's lips, then tilted Willow's head back to suck on her neck, finding Willow's pulse point and laving her tongue over it, before driving her tongue into the hollow of Willow's throat.

Electrified with desire, the spell of paralysis that had momentarily confined Willow dissipated, and she responded in kind, her fingers in Tara's hair, on Tara's back, her mouth kissing any part of Tara that drew near. Every cell in her body thrilled to Tara's touch, to the soft breasts unencumbered by amulet or demon grooves, to the hair unadorned by seed pearls and gold. It was only Tara she wanted, and all of Tara, and always.

Willow could not have said how long they were enraptured of each other, how many kisses they shared, before finally embracing each other over the dead and conquered Seal. Willow placed her head over Tara's breast and was comforted by the beating of Tara's new heart.

A delicious eternity later, they drew back enough to look at each other once more. Tara's eyes, as blue as bellflowers in spring. Her scent of sandalwood and roses. Her skin as silky as butterfly wings. The crowd was murmuring in Romanian, their jubilation evident, and Faith gave Willow a broad smile. "Way to go, Red," Faith said, her arm about Jude's waist, her hand in the back pocket of Jude's leather pants.

Willow and Tara both laughed aloud for the joy of it.

And only then did they notice that John had fallen to the ground, still.

Accept my gift, he had said.

Did he just sacrifice himself for Tara? Would John, too, die twice?

Tara followed Willow's gaze. "John?" she asked, timidly touching his shoulder.

The nurse slowly opened his eyes, and Willow breathed a sigh of relief. Still holding Tara tight, she asked, "What happened?"

"Osiris is gone," John said. "He sacrificed himself to invite Tara forth from heaven, and has now joined the other gods."

"Are you all right?" Tara asked.

John looked her over. "I might miss being able to call forth the spirits of the dead, but I think I'll survive. Besides, I still have a job to do. Being a nurse. Could be cool. The future is wide open."

Willow looked at Tara, and found her new future in the soft adoration of Tara's eyes. Tara was not the only one who was reborn. They both would rise like a phoenix from these ashes, and together they would comfort the world. Willow fully intended on keeping her promise to Osiris; she would show Tara more beauty than Tara could ever have imagined.

For they had a future now, and it was populated with sharp tomato plants, fresh mown grass, and sunshiny dreams. Belly big afternoons spent under the willow tree. Durians and morningstars and nights, many many nights, of love.

Willow. Doomed to live.

Born to love.

Not even the poet knows the end from the beginning.

...

A/N - Thank you to all my readers, both new and old, for allowing me to share this story that changed my life. And much love and thanks to Joss Whedon and the entire cast of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, for giving us all these characters we so love and adore.

Jen


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